No Rest for the Wicked
by Sneebs
Summary: He had thought it was all over. But when Michael is haunted by his past, it's up to the Clinica Sanando crew to save him from...himself?
1. Chapter 1

Michael Holt, renowned neurosurgeon, awoke with a start as the ring of his alarm rattled through his ears. He sighed as, with both his eyes still closed, he reached blindly for his phone. Not being able to grasp it, he gave up, instead opening his eyes just a peek to allow himself to adjust to the morning sun that flooded the well-kept apartment room. His side ached terribly.

"You gonna turn that off?"

Michael jumped at the sudden voice, looking toward the end of the bed, where a woman with auburn hair and a glowing smile sat, her legs crossed. He propped himself up on his elbows, took a few deep, startled breaths, and stopped the alarm. Still burdened by the remnants of sleep, he looked at his ex-wife again, his eyes focusing. "How long you been here?" he said in a gruff voice.

"A while. But I didn't want to wake you," she said, still a sweet grin at her lips. She watched him with a sense of peacefulness.

He laughed sourly a bit as he pushed himself off the bed, regretfully pushing away the warm covers and making his way to the closet. "Is that why you've come back from the, uh, from the great beyond? To watch your ex-husband sleep?" He opened the closet door, and turned back around, a quizzical look on his face. "Hey, where do you go when you're not here?"

"I don't know," Anna responded, bemused. "I'm here, and then I'm…gone. And if I was in control, I would not choose to show up and watch you have a nightmare." She finished with a slightly guilty expression, as though she'd been caught while sneaking treats out of a forbidden cookie jar.

"Who says I had a nightmare?" He turned back and began rummaging through clothing in search of an outfit for the day.

"You tossed and turned a bit," Anna said, seeing straight through his false nonchalance. She knew him too well to not notice that something was bothering him. "What was it about?"

Michael made his way back to the bed with his suit in his hands, looking distraught. "I was at the clinic, and I knew I had a patient, so I walked from room to room, but couldn't find anyone."

Anna seemed curious. "And then?"

"Then I found a man." Michael put the clothes down, and walked forward a little. He seemed bewildered by the dream, like it was some unsolvable puzzle. "He was about my age, looked like me." He paused. "And he opened his mouth to talk, but-"

"Michael, do you want to talk?" She asked, concerned.

Michael just plowed on, the thoughtful and confused expression drained from his face. "And his head turned into Kate's, and he told me to get my ass to work, which is what I have to do now." He turned, walking toward the door to the kitchen, dismissing the subject entirely. "Hey, next time you drop in to spy on me, could you at least start the coffee?" He turned around, with a faint smile playing at his lips, which dropped off of his face as soon as he saw that Anna was no longer there. "Please?" he said to the empty room, going to start the coffee maker.

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The car ride to Clinica Sanando was unpleasant. Michael couldn't refrain from thinking about the nightmare he'd had, the one he'd blown off when Anna had asked about it. He'd been having many of them lately, but this had been the most disturbing.

The first part he'd told her had been true. Michael had found himself walking through the clinic where he worked ten hours a week, and it had seemed absolutely deserted. Not even the gentle hum of the few pieces of equipment the clinic could actually afford could be heard, their surprisingly soothing tune absent. Looking through rooms, he knew he was searching for something or someone, though it wasn't exactly a patient. It was…something strangely familiar, though he was having trouble recalling what exactly. The clinic looked different, too. The yellow-ish light that usually shined down brightly – so bright it oftentimes gave Michael a headache – was dim, and green. A thin fog made it hard for him to see his own feet. It danced a ghost dance before retreating away as he cautiously made his way forward.

Why was this familiar? He recognized the clinic, of course, because he worked there part-time. But that wasn't what was making him feel unsettled. It was the disconcerting realization that made his head throb, when it hit him like a car – he'd been here before. This strange place that was so eerily silent, and dark. This duplicate image of the real world, but more…dead.

Then he'd stumbled into the room. Exam Room 7, read the plate outside the door. He'd finally managed to find someone else in this quiet place. It was a man. At least, it must've been. Though it was bathed in shadows, and was itself a dark figure, it seemed to be about the height of Michael. Despite not being able to see the man's face, Michael knew it was staring at him. He'd had goose bumps – if that's even possible in a dream. But a sinuous shiver had made its way up his spine as a chilled breath escaped his mouth in a gasp. The thing certainly was not Kate, as he had told Anna. It was something repulsive, something that should not have been there, in the corner in Exam Room 7.

Michael had begun running away. Tripping over a lone IV pole, he'd fallen onto his side. Cringing and full of adrenaline that masked his pain, he bolted for the door. Once he'd escaped the clinic, though, his eyes had not been met by the busy street in the poorer part of New York. He could not see his car, his sleek black Maserati Gran Turismo. It was gone, as well as were all the buildings. He'd looked behind him, desperate for an explanation, and found that there was that _thing_ looking out the window at him. It still didn't have a face, and it was as though the figure was clothed in solid black, for no color could be seen, even as the green flickering lights from above cast a sickening glow down upon the creature. And at that moment, Michael hadn't been sure whether he'd preferred the thing had just chased him instead, for this was much worse. He was filled with a sense of dread. The shadowy man had peered out at him, seeming to say, _I can be patient. _

A chorus of honks awoke him from his trance. Michael swerved on the road, gripping the wheel tightly with white knuckles, to avoid hitting a bicyclist. He needed to clear his mind, to extract the sour memory of the nightmare from his head, or he feared he was going to actually hit somebody. But, since his mind refused to be silent and let him safely drive to work in peace, he pulled off of the road that led him to Clinica Sanando and instead parked on the street outside of the small coffee shop he visited relatively frequently.

Making his way in, he suddenly stopped, halfway through the entrance. He just realized why his side was hurting since he woke up this morning. But no, it couldn't be. He'd never been a sleepwalker, and he'd woken up in about the same position he'd gone to bed in, the position he always slept in. He put his hand to his side, pulling it away sharply, a hitch catching in his breath. He resumed walking, but this time, he headed straight for the bathroom in the back of the coffee shop. As soon as he was inside, he pulled up his shirt, undoing the neat way he tucked it into his black pants. He found bruises, just as he had expected. They were hideously dark, a blackish blue that spread over his ribs. Michael gaped at his reflection in the small mirror above the sink. He'd gotten this in his sleep, he hadn't had it last night when he was awake. But _how _had he managed to get wounded when he hadn't even left his bed?

Tucking his shirt back into his pants, he paused to take several deep breaths, staring at his disoriented reflection. _How? _he mouthed to himself. But his twin in the mirror only stared back at him, the same clueless expression that was on his face.

A ringing came from his pocket. He fished around, finding his phone. Hesitating a second before answering, he finally accepted the call, bringing the device to his ear.

"Where the hell are you?" said a frantic voice from the other side of the line.

"Kate, I know I'm late."

"Yeah. I do too," she replied, sounding aggravated.

He was surprised. Kate didn't usually get too irritated with the job, even though it was a handful. Something must be really wrong.

"Just get over here. I could use your help."

Michael looked in the mirror once again. He sighed. "I'll be right over."

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Kate met him at the front desk. As soon as she knew she'd gotten Michael's attention, she led the way down the hallway, where she stopped and waited for Michael to catch up.

"What's the problem?" he said, halting before her.

She looked perturbed. "I'm not exactly sure. A young patient came in this morning, said he'd fallen off his skateboard near the construction site up the street. You'd think that explains the bruises he has on his back and ribs and the possible broken rib."

"Right," Michael agreed.

"But check this out. He told me he skateboards every chance he gets. But the skateboard itself looks barely even used."

"He could have just bought a new one."

Kate shook her head. "He came here straight after falling off. It doesn't have a single scratch on it."

Michael stared at her. "You think he's being abused?"

Kate looked grim. "I think it's the dad. Our patient certainly seemed like he didn't want him to find out he's paying us a visit."

"Okay, so we contact the mom," Michael offered.

"Well, there may be one tiny flaw with that idea."

He frowned. "What? You already called the kid's father?"

"Right as soon as he showed up and we got his name." She seemed to be becoming more distraught by the minute.

Michael rubbed his eyes in frustration. "Okay. Well, what if the dad isn't abusive? What if there's another cause for his bruising?"

"Then we'll have lucked out, I guess."

Kate looked over to the lobby, and after a moment of searching, her eyes lit up. "I have an idea," she said, then she swiftly made her way to the front desk. She walked toward a middle-aged man with mousy brown hair and a beard to match, wearing a decent suit. He looked almost out of place in the little clinic. "Hi," Kate greeted the man, putting on a smile. "You here for Steven?"

"Yeah, I'm Ben Tucker," the man answered. "I-I just got a call about my son Steven. Is he- is he okay?" He seemed worried, but that was a normal response that a parent has when their child ends up in a clinic or hospital. However, could it also mean that Ben Tucker was nervous about possibly being found as an abusive father?

"I'm Doctor Kate Sykora. I'm the one who called you and Steven's doing, uh, fine. We just can't treat him without your consent," she laid a clipboard with a document on it on the counter before the man, "so if you could just sign this."

Ben seemed fidgety. "Um, you know, we have insurance, so maybe it's better if I take him to a nicer place?"

"Don't worry, he just took a tumble off his skateboard. A few scrapes and bruises, he's gonna be fine. Just, sign the form," Kate urged, a reassuring smile on her face the entire time.

The man paused. Reluctantly, he finally nodded, pulled off a leather glove, and took the pen she offered him. He signed, his raw knuckles clearly visible. No wonder he'd been reluctant to sign, he hadn't wanted to reveal his injury. Kate looked over her shoulder briefly, seeing that Michael was intently watching from behind the window in the closest exam room. He gave Kate a weary look.

Ben finished signing, and he put the pen down. "Great," Kate said. "Have a seat, and I'll get him to you in a couple minutes."

"Thank you."

Being her courteous self, Kate nodded kindly before walking back down a hallway that led to the room where Steven was. Michael met her while she was walking, with a stern expression.

"Did you see his knuckles?" was the first thing she asked.

"Yeah. Looks like he's been punching somebody."

"Alright, I'll call the police, and you can try to get the real story out of Steven." As she spoke, the two doctors watched Ben Tucker insert money into the vending machine in the lobby, then push a few buttons, requesting his order. He stepped back, and when the snack he paid for failed to exit the machine, he grew angry quickly, smacking the machine hard, creating a ruckus.

"The hell's his problem?" Michael said, following Kate out to calm Ben.

"This thing ate my money!" Ben yelled, to no one in particular. He resumed punching the machine, people all around whispering and moving their children away.

"Take it easy," a police officer said, moving toward him and trying to hold him back.

"Go to hell!" he told the officer.

"Tucker, you need to calm down," Michael called.

Though his hands were being restrained, Ben still managed to kick the vending machine hard enough to shatter the glass near the base, his leg turning crimson as he pulled it away from the piercing shards. He cried out as the officer and Michael came forward to catch him as he fell backward, stricken with pain. "Let me go!"

"Listen, you cut your leg," Michael told him.

"Dad?" Steven had run out of his room.

Kate turned and hurriedly walked to him. "Steven. Let's go back into an exam room." She tried to usher him back.

"What's he doing here? Did you call him?" He sounded betrayed and he looked at Kate with fear in his eyes.

Michael and Kate exchanged another look as she led Steven away from the violence. Their suspicions were confirmed. It had to be the father.

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Michael was not enjoying this at all. He had already been experiencing a mild headache as he rushed into work that morning, especially after discovering the injuries he'd sustained in his sleep. But now, his headache was much worse. It hammered away at the inside of his skull, beating an unsteady rhythm as his head throbbed. He had assisted Ben Tucker into an exam room to tend to the man's bloody leg, all the while Ben recovering from his violent fit.

Michael already despised Ben. Not because he broke the vending machine, Michael understood that. It pissed him off when he put his money into something and didn't get what he asked for, too. But because this father had almost certainly been the abuser of his own son, and as far as Michael could tell, Steven was a great kid.

Michael was kneeling on one knee, working on Ben's leg, when Ben announced with disdain, "I think that'll be fine. Can I just get my son and go?"

"Not unless you want to risk a mother of an infection." He looked down at his work, where he was almost finished stitching. "You went at that vending machine pretty hard. Must be quite the chocoholic."

"Last couple of months, just seems like everything's making me crazy. Things that used to roll off my back just don't anymore. I don't know what's happening to me."

"Feeling stressed?"

"Yeah, I am that. Drive a town car for UN types, foreign diplomats. Some of them are not so easy to deal with."

Michael glanced up at Ben's hand. "Stress making you punch walls?" he asked suspiciously.

"That? Oh, no. I got this ch-changing a flat tire."

Michael looked up at the man warily. Ben's story was so ridiculously false-sounding, he wondered why the abusive father didn't just confess right at that moment. He was an avidly bad liar.

"You done? Can I get Steven and go?" Ben said anxiously as Michael took his rubber gloves off with a soft snap.

"I need to bandage it up."

Ben's pocket began chirping. He pulled out his cellphone. "Uh, this is my wife." Michael went to the other end of the room to search for bandages as Ben proceeded to speak with his wife. "Hi Julie. No, it was just a little accident, I cut my leg. Doctor stitched it up and now I guess he's gone down the hall, looking for something to wrap it with." He paused. "Well, it's kind of a dump, and the doctor's arrogant."

Michael was still in the room. He'd stopped his searching once he'd overheard Ben. The man honestly didn't see Michael walking around to his left. Slowly, the doctor approached Ben with a look of concern, until he was in front of him.

Ben looked at him, as though surprised to see he was in the room. "Umm…I gotta go, honey, he's back."

"Didn't see me standing there?" Michael said, grabbing a piece of equipment.

"Um, no. I guess not."

"Need to check your eyes. Look at me." He went through the procedure, checking each eye. "Any headaches recently?" _I know I've had some, _he kept himself from saying. His head hurt badly.

"Yeah. Figured that's what you get when you can't pay your bills," Ben said sullenly.

_And when you can't sleep. _"Any problems with your peripheral vision lately?"

Ben took a nervous breath. "I almost sideswiped a cab yesterday."

Michael eyed him with worry. "Stay right here," he said. "I need to straighten something out." He no longer believe the man needed to be punished, because the look on his face when Michael swept out of the exam room was quite enough to qualify as a form of torture. Ben knew there was something wrong.

"Where's 'World's Greatest Dad'?" one of the police officers on the other side of the front desk was saying to Kate as he joined them.

"He's in an exam room. I'm afraid you can't take him, the man needs an emergency MRI," Michael responded.

"He'll get one in the jail ward when he's booked," the officer replied, obviously with no respect for Ben.

"His loss of vision is recent and could be progressing rapidly. It can't wait."

The officer thought. "You want me to take him to County?"

Kate interjected. "There's a quicker option."

"And what would that be?" Michael asked, his tone suggesting he already knew the answer.

"Let me give you a hint. It's got lots of windows and your name all over it."

Michael mentally rolled his eyes, but knew that Ben Tucker was his responsibility now. After all, taking the sick man back to his practice _was_ the quickest option. "Take him to Holt Neuro." He pinched his nose and went over to a wall to lean against.

Kate noticed. "You alright?" she asked.

"Yeah. Got a killer headache, though." Michael squeezed his eyes shut tightly, the lights in the room suddenly incredibly bright. He gasped.

"You don't seem alright." She moved closer and put a gentle hand on his side to help support him, for he'd begun swaying, but that made him gasp again and move away from her touch.

"I'm fine," he guaranteed, but the way he walked suggested otherwise. "Anyway, I've got a patient." Michael shook Kate off and headed for his car, pushing his way through the crowd in the lobby. Once he exited the building, he cradled his tender ribs. As soon as he was finished with Ben at Holt Neuro, he was going to get an X-ray. Getting into his sports car, he began driving down the busy streets of Manhattan.

But something was wrong. Oh, so terribly wrong. Michael felt eyes on him, not from the sidewalks, or the car around him. It wasn't an ordinary feeling, either. He felt, no, he _knew _that there was a cold gaze on him from the seat behind him. Yet when he'd gotten into the car, he'd been sure he was the only living soul in the vehicle.

Maybe that was still true.

He knew it couldn't be Anna. She'd have announced her presence by now, most likely spooking Michael and causing him to get into a near-accident. Also, he never even noticed she was around until she spoke up. But if this feeling was because he was really being watched, what could be watching him? He always saw his deceased ex-wife walking around, but only in dreams had he even come close to seeing other things in the same situation as her.

Michael wanted out of the car badly, to just finally get to Holt Neuro so he could jump out of his car and get the eyes off him. But it was gridlock, and he found himself shaking. The air had suddenly become so _cold_. He turned up the heat, trying not to notice the way his breath turned into vapor as it escaped his mouth with each shaky rising and lowering of his chest, and trying to make his eyes avoid the rear-view mirror. Michael could not tell whether he was hearing raspy breathing from behind him, or if it was just his own.

But he was sure of one thing. There was a frigid hand, each individual finger as icy cold as icicles, resting on his shoulder.

He tore off a shoe and threw it at the backseat, straining to look behind him. When he looked, however, all he saw was that his shoe had bounced off only the cushioned leather. There was no one in the car with him. But it sure as hell had seemed like someone_ had_ been.

An angry driver behind him honked her horn several times, making him jump so high he hit his head on the ceiling. He forced himself to grip the wheel and calm down, then tried his best to make it back to his practice alive. His knuckles were as white as the snow New York got in winter, though, and his heart continued to race. Boy, was he glad he hadn't gotten into an accident-

"What's got you all tense?" said a sudden voice from the passenger seat.

Michael, pumped full of adrenaline, with his hands firmly attached to the wheel, swerved, his beautiful Maserati Gran Turismo screaming as the tires locked in place, but the vehicle continued to skid. It all happened in a second. Yet for Michael, who sat terrified in the driver seat, everything slowed down, and he saw himself flying, in slow-motion, into the car in the lane next to him.

As the cars made contact, his sports car tearing into a small 2009 Ford Focus, alarms cried and lights began blinking all around him.

Michael felt dizzy. He swore he could almost see stars orbiting his head as he looked down and saw blood on his forearm. His eyes grew heavier, and he felt himself drifting into darkness. Before lights out, he managed to look into the passenger seat, where Anna sat, her mouth wide and eyes teary.


	2. Chapter 2

The way he awoke was much similar to how he'd awoken that morning: with a start. Yet this time, there was no sunlight leaking through his windows and the only thing remotely similar to an alarm was the humming and beeps of machinery around him. He reached out towards his bedside table anyway, his eyes closed, and once again his hand blindly searching for his phone. The only thing his hand got a hold of, though, was a wide metal surface.

He heard crying, just then, too. Realizing it had been going on the entire time he'd been awake, he opened his eyes and peered toward the end of the bed for Anna.

And there she was, sitting against the wall at the other end of the room, her red and puffy face near her knees. She was beautiful even while crying. Gentle sobs wracked her body, and the tears that fell from her eyes were bitter.

"Anna?" Michael said, noticing his throat was uncomfortably dry. She looked up at him, and tried to smile. "Seem to have a tendency of watching me sleep."

"Oh, Michael, I'm so sorry."

He shifted in bed to see her better, cringing when his side lit up on fire and his head howled in pain. "Wh-what do you mean?"

"It's all my fault. The car accident – I surprised you. You hit another car. I'm so sorry, you're hurt now because of me. You could've _died_," she sobbed.

"Death is gonna come sooner or later," Michael responded weakly.

"I-I didn't know you'd- Usually you blink an eye when I show up, but I didn't think you'd react so much." Regret rolled down her cheeks as a clear, warm liquid. She put her head back into her hands.

"No, no no. It's not your fault. Anna-"

The only door in the room opened, and a cascade of bleach-blonde curls rushed in, followed by Rita. He glanced back toward Anna, to see that she'd disappeared.

"Oh my god," Kate said, looking at Michael laying in the hospital bed. "Are you okay?"

"Just a few scratches, I think," Michael replied. "Nothing bad. I'll be ready for work by the end of the day."

"Not on my watch, you won't," Rita said sternly, her motherly instincts kicking in. Her expression was set firmly, and she brought her hands to her hips defiantly. "You're going to rest."

"They brought you to Holt Neuro after finding out about the crash. It was closest. Plus, they're probably gonna give you better care here than anywhere else in the state of New York." Kate stepped forward, getting a better look. She briefly looked at his side, and her voice became quiet. "You know, when they were bandaging you, they found that you had bruises. Doctor told me."

Michael feigned surprise. "Oh?"

"Yeah. Michael, it looked to them like you have a broken rib. They're going to do X-rays later once you've had a chance to rest."

"Must've gotten it in the accident."

Kate gave him a skeptical eye. "The bruises are too old, Michael."

He frowned. He figured the look she pulled on him at that moment was the suspicious one she'd also given Steven that morning. Did she suspect he'd gotten beaten up, too? Whatever she thought, Michael wasn't fond of the way she looked upon him as though he was sick – like a patient, rather than a friend.

Kate dropped the subject, seeing the set look on his face and knowing that he wouldn't be telling her anything anytime soon. "So, about Steven's father-"

"He got the MRI?" Michael had renewed interest in the conversation.

She nodded. "He has a malignant brain tumor. It's been affecting his behavior."

"It's something that can easily be fixed." Michael nodded. As soon as Ben Tucker had begun exhibiting symptoms for something more than a cut leg, he'd suspected something neurological, like a tumor. Apparently, he'd been right. Perhaps that's partly why he was known as the best neurosurgeon around, he noticed things.

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Though Anna said she had no control over when she showed up, she didn't appear for a long time after the car accident. In fact, once Michael had begun healing, things had become relatively normal. He stopped suffering from nightmares, except occasional ones that had nothing to do with that awful dead place. He even found a balance between both jobs that worked for everybody. It was as if his entire life was a circle, and he'd been at the bottom for a long time. Now, everything was great, stress levels were reduced, patient's problems were never too serious, and no more mysterious bruises showed up. He even loosened up a bit and grew closer to those he worked with at the clinic. Michael was at the top of the circle. Sure, a few things went wrong, like when there was that blizzard while he was stuck in the clinic with a strangulated hernia and they had to perform surgery there, or when a woman held him and his friends hostage inside the clinic at gunpoint. (It seems as those this clinic is bad luck).

At least, until that night when he had the nightmare again, the same one that he had right before he woke up with bruises and a broken rib. This time, the thing chasing him seemed closer, and he woke in the middle of the night yelling, his mouth parched and his legs sore. He hadn't dared to sleep after that, not for the rest of the night, nor the next day. Even when he did finally succumb to the demands of his heavy eyes and groggy brain, he never slept much, and when he did, he didn't for very long. He barely even nodded off while doing paperwork, his fear was too great. He tried to hide his symptoms of sleep deprivation: the forgetfulness, the dark bags under his eyes, the way he lost energy and enthusiasm for everything, and overall just the way his personality changed. He found himself snapping at patients, coworkers, friends. One of the worst things, however, was how he was on edge all the time. Constantly, he was jittery and paranoid, and he tried to be alert despite how tired he was.

Back when it had all started, Anton had been the first to notice. "Brother Mike," he'd said in a smooth, calm voice. "You seem different. Your physical energy is…faltering."

Michael had wanted to show the man his middle finger. He already disliked him, thought he was a nuisance. But he refrained, and only asked Anton to move so he could exit the room. Anton looked at him with knowing eyes, but stepped out of the way. As Michael had been passing through the doorway, Anton had called, "Anna hasn't been around for a while, has she?"

How the carpenter knew that, Michael could never tell.

Soon after, others had recognized his symptoms. "You've been working too hard. Take a day off," Rita had said, endlessly pestering him. Zeke, who'd first noticed during the blizzard that Michael was sick, followed him around saying, "Listen to me. You know what happened last time you ignored my advice." Even Kate saw that Michael seemed to always be at Clinica Sanando before the crack of dawn, while he normally was late to work.

It was late one night at the clinic. They'd already herded out the rest of the stragglers who they'd have to treat the next day, apologizing for the wait. The lights in every exam room, save one, were turned off, and only Michael, Zeke and Anton remained; Kate had left early to go meet up with a friend.

"Hey." Zeke called from the front door. "Turn off that last light? I'm locking up." There was a rattling of keys as he searched through for the right ones.

Michael nodded from where he stood at the front desk. Anton was too far back to hear the request, so Michael walked with long strides down the hall, following the light from the exam room with the open door. "Why is this light still on, I thought we turned all of them off?" he yelled to Zeke, who must've not heard, because there wasn't a response.

He was about to enter the room, when he suddenly halted mid-stride. The room, it was Exam Room 7. He clearly saw the connection. The sign by the door even had the same crooked 'x' as the one in his nightmare, and the light glinted off of it in an exactly identical way.

Then Michael waved a hand dismissively, shaking his head nervously. He was being foolish. He was just letting night terrors get to him, like a little kid. That mixed with the lack of sleep…he'd only been paranoid when he'd felt the icy fingers on his shoulder. So no, he was a neurosurgeon, not a kid. Not anymore, thank god. His childhood had been much worse than this, oh yes, but everything had been _real _then. Though still terrified, he braced himself and entered the room.

And nothing happened. Michael released a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding captive. It was still a wonder why the light was on, but that could easily be explained. Perhaps Zeke had gone in to put away some left out equipment, or to clean up, and had simply forgotten to close the door and push the light switch when he'd exited the room. He was letting his nightmare get to him again. He couldn't go on like this, he was a neurosurgeon. He dealt with the brain, _other _people's brains. How was he supposed to do that if he was being childish?

It was the sleep deprivation, it had to be. He assured himself of this multiple times while stretching and letting out a huge yawn. Boy, was he tired. His vision was slightly blurry by now; he hadn't slept for the last three days. If his colleagues knew how long he went without sleep, they would hold him back and refuse to let him work. He knew he shouldn't have operated on patients, he'd put them in a great amount of danger. But he'd consumed plenty of caffeine and eaten the right foods, and hadn't messed up horribly yet. Tonight though, he knew he'd sleep. He had to. He wanted to. He just was terrified to.

Michael located the light switch, and moved toward it. He must have slipped in the process, because next thing he knew, he was lying on the floor. Trying to get back up, but falling on fatigued arms, he decided, his mind cloudy, to stay there on the floor for a little. It was comfortable to finally lay down, after all, and if he just stayed there for a moment, he wouldn't be hurting anybody. All Michael would do after getting up would be going home, and that could wait a minute or two. Swallowing and finally closing dry eyes, Michael blissfully dozed off, there on the floor of Exam Room 7.

He wasn't tired anymore. Feeling the linoleum floor beneath him, Michael opened his eyes. But when the scene from his nightmares met his eyes, he sat erect and scooted so his back was against a wall. Where he had previously been laying, he saw himself, his own lifeless body.

_Just a nightmare, nothing else, _he thought to himself, or did he whisper it? Something at the other end of the suddenly dark exam room shifted. When had he turned out the lights? They'd been on when he fell asleep.

That was another thing. When had he ever been aware that he was dreaming when he slept? In the nightmare, yes, he always knew that he was unconscious. It was as though he was awake when he was in this dead place in his subconscious, almost like he wasn't in his mind at all, but walking around an actual replica of the clinic. It was too realistic, too, and when he looked in cupboards in his nightmare where he'd never looked before in reality, he saw what was actually in that cupboard in Clinica Sanando. It was strange, unreal. It was also too familiar…

"Zeke? Anton?" He knew they had to be there. It was his dream, wasn't it? If this was his subconscious forming an image of the clinic, then wouldn't the two others be there? Shouldn't the dream be extracting information from his memory, experience, and imagination to create the setting around him? "Did someone turn off the-"

Michael gasped. The shadows shifted again, but this time they were closer somehow, as though the light source had changed, making them longer. They reached out for him, their appearance too reminiscent of gnarled fingers for comfort. Michael wasn't even sure how he could see the shadows if the lights were off. There was no light, even; it had disappeared off the ceiling entirely. There was only a green-tinged glow that flanked the growing and writhing shadows before him.

Michael made a break for where he knew the door should be. He crawled so furiously, his knees must've been skinned, rubbed raw by the floor. He made it to the door, got up onto his feet as quickly as he could. Grasping for the doorknob, and finally finding it, he yanked at the door. It wouldn't open. He pulled, pulled frantically some more, and even tried pushing, but it refused to budge. Something small skittered over his hand, and he pulled away in disgust, with a look of repulsion.

That was when he heard the breathing behind him, felt it on the back of his neck, and fingers wrapped around his ankle. They pulled him down, him falling flat on the floor, his forehead smashing against the linoleum with a painstaking c_rack! _He hurriedly flipped himself over onto his back.

The face was no more than three inches from his own, with pale melting skin and cockroaches pouring out of its otherwise empty eye sockets. When it opened its mouth, blood spewed everywhere, and out scurried more of the grotesque creatures, their shiny hard shells reflecting the light that was coming from an invisible source. Some dropped onto Michael's face, biting him and trying to burrow into his skin. Michael screamed, leaving his mouth open enough for one of the cockroaches to dig in to it. He bit down hard, having to try more than once to penetrate the almost impregnable shell of the insect with his teeth. It popped in his mouth like roe, filling his mouth with the taste of blood and flesh, his own flesh that the insect had bitten off and swallowed. Spitting the cockroach's entrails out, they dripped down Michael's chin, warm and thick.

"Michael? Michael!"

His heart beat faster at the sound. Was someone else really in the clinic, in this hellish place with him? No, the sound was too distant. Even if someone was on the other side of the door, the sound was too gargled, as though it'd traveled through water to get to him.

"Michael, wake up, buddy. Wake up."

The thing before him reached out a slender hand, roping it around his neck like a noose. It seemed too strong to look as thin and bony as it did. Michael grabbed the hand and bit into it as hard as he could. It crunched between his teeth. Unlike the cockroach, the fluid that came out of the hand was black and watery, pouring over his lips and trickling down his throat. Michael coughed, his esophagus burning as more spilled into it. The ghostly thing shrieked, yanking its hand away. It was a terrible noise, the sound the thing made. It sent a chill down the doctor's spine.

Michael took his chance. He rolled out from under the inhuman thing, got onto his knees and crawled, his ears throbbing with the force of his panicked heartbeat inside him, toward his cold body. Grabbing it, his hands went straight through. He thought, and then remembered.

It all came back to him. In a sudden rush, he knew what to do.

He laid down on top of himself, and felt himself dissolve into his own flesh.

Then he awoke.

"Oh, thank god. You must have fallen or something and passed out."

Michael looked around, frantic, but the only things in the room that had faces was Anton and Zeke, who knelt beside him with a relieved expression. He still was lying on the linoleum. Zeke had been the one to speak, and he realized that it was Zeke who he had heard while unconscious. Anton stood behind the other doctor, studying Michael. He wore a grim mask, and something on his face betrayed his fear.

"Well, uh, I hate to be a pain in your ass, but as a doctor, I have to ask you. Have you even been sleeping at all?" Zeke gave Michael a hand and helped him stand. Anton kept his distance.

"Course I have," Michael lied.

"Man, don't do this again," Zeke said in his gruff smoker's voice, shaking his head. "Don't deny that you're suffering from lack of sleep. We can all see the evidence. Go home, get some sleep. I'm sure Kate will understand. May be late from time to time, but you never miss a day."

Michael stared at the man. _You'd seen what I just saw, you wouldn't want to sleep. _"Sure," he said shakily. Looking around one more time at the perfectly normal exam room, he walked out of there surprisingly fast, especially because his whole body hurt like hell.

"Wait a sec," Zeke followed him out, slightly perturbed with the way the neurosurgeon was acting. "Can't just drive in your condition, you'll hurt somebody. Kate probably wouldn't mind you sleeping here for the night. I could drop you off, too, just don't drive. Driving while sleep deprived is the definition of 'mayhem'."

Michael cringed at the mention of staying at the clinic. He didn't want to be anywhere near that exam room. In fact, he was starting to consider moving out of the country right then.

He agreed to let Zeke take him back to his apartment after the other doctor had locked up and Anton had left, though Michael was not even considering sleep. He instead spent the rest of the night shivering under his covers, his eyes wide open and the taste of that black liquid still present on the back of his tongue.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Michael got ready for work, as per usual. He hadn't slept at all, and the coming of the morning had been a glorious thing, because that meant it was okay to be up and moving about. He could arrive at the clinic or Holt Neuro without questions asked, as long as it was after dawn. That was what he planned on doing.

He was already fully dressed by the time the coffeemaker sputtered out its last drops of the bitter drink. Setting the plate he'd eaten eggs off of in the dishwasher, he grabbed a mug and poured himself a cup. Furls of steam rose and brushed warmly against his cheeks as he sipped the coffee, pretending it was an average morning.

Michael arrived at Clinica Sanando at approximately 6 AM, three hours earlier than normal. But these days, nothing seemed to be normal anymore.

"Well, you're here bright and early," remarked Kate upon seeing him walk in. She shook her head. "When did you start liking this place?"

_When I started having nothing to do in the morning, _Michael thought, but otherwise ignored the question. "Is there something I can do?" The lobby was empty, save for him and Kate. He knew she certainly wouldn't be asking him to take a patient.

Kate looked at him funny. "Are you feeling alright? You're sounding a bit helpful."

Michael raised his eyebrows, and Kate smiled.

"Yeah, actually," she said, answering his question. "You can take the day off to rest."

He was getting really pissed off with everyone telling him he should take a break. Right now, he didn't need sleep, he needed to go to work, to vacate his mind of his troubles. Right now, he just wanted to be acknowledged as his normal, healthy self, before he started being haunted by the dead in his sleep. But all people saw when they looked at him was his pale face, and the dark bags under his bloodshot eyes. _Guess I look a bit dead myself, _he thought with a small sour smile.

"Michael?" Kate said, tilting her head and peering at him curiously. "I'm not letting you return to work until you sleep a little. I can tell you didn't sleep at all last night. Zeke called me, told me what happened."

With an aggravated sigh, Michael turned on his heels and made way to the door. "You don't know what happened last night," he said over his shoulder, then he closed the door behind him, perhaps a little too hard.

He knew what he was going to do: go to Holt Neuro. It was his own practice; there, nobody could make him take a day off. He was his own boss.

At once, when he stepped out of the elevator onto the floor that held his office, he knew that Kate must've known he would try coming here, because Rita reacted the instant she saw him. Kate, the crazy woman, most likely called Rita and told her everything Zeke had told her the night prior. However, Michael simply continued walking to his office, ignoring his assistant's flustered admonishment.

He finally reached his office, and before shutting the door to block out Rita, he turned around and said, "I'm fine." The neurosurgeon slammed a door shut for the second time that day, and it was still only before seven o'clock.

Michael just then remembered he had dinner with Christina that night, and that she'd be suspicious if he missed again, due to her scheduling it a long time in advance. He sighed, knowing that his sister was simply going to tell him how tired he looked, like everyone else had been doing the past few days, and ask him what was wrong. _Today is just going to get worse. _He dreaded the dinner, though he quickly began dreading the wait even more, because very few clients appeared, and he'd already spent other restless nights finishing paperwork, so there was none of that left to keep him occupied. So, the surgeon sat in his chair, knowing he didn't have enough fuel in him to go for a run, and twiddled his deft thumbs. He didn't have anything to do, and that was something he hadn't experienced in a while.

Soon, he dozed off against his will. But it was okay, because for the first time in a long time, he had a pleasant dream, his slumber filled with images of Anna. She was in the place where his nightmares always brought him, but her face lit up the dark room like a lantern in the night.

Rita opened the door and peeked in, about to continue telling Michael how he needed sleep, but she stopped and smiled when she spotted the man in his chair, his head rolled limply onto his shoulder. Then, she stepped out, and as quietly as possible, shut the door.

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Momentarily, clouds fogged his brain. Blinking, and feeling more satisfied than he had in the last week, he stretched. Realizing he was sleeping in his chair in his office, Michael checked the clock. The neurosurgeon nearly fell out of his chair upon the realization that dinner at Christina's house had been scheduled for twenty minutes ago.

Michael got up and frantically searched for his jacket, grabbing it when he spotted it. Checking to make sure his car keys were in one of the pockets, he rushed, still somewhat sleepy, out the door.

"Where are you off to in such a hurry?" Rita remarked as she saw him run by her desk and press the button beside the elevator.

He turned and shook his head. "Nothing," he mumbled, though it was obvious he was lying. He hadn't told his assistant about the dinner at his sister's house because she'd only chastise him again, as she had every time he'd been late or brought up an excuse to avoid going.

Rita knew the doctor too well. "It's your sister, isn't it?" He nodded, a guilty look on his face. She sighed. "I'm just happy you're going this time."

The elevator arrived, and the doors swung open. With a sheepish grin, Michael stepped in. Maybe he still had a chance at getting her to forgive him, if he showed up. Though he knew she'd most likely be pissed off, he decided to best bigger brother thing to do would be to try anyway.

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The look on Christina's face as she opened the front door showed that she wasn't expecting him at all. She instantly embraced him in a warm hug. "You came."

Michael took a deep breath as she remained planted, her arms around him. He stood rigidly. He'd never been good at hugging. "'Course I did. Hey, did you do something different with your hair?"

Christina stepped back and squinted her eyes at her brother accusingly. "Don't try to charm your way out of being late." She had a wide smile on her face as she turned and walked to the kitchen. "Come on, your food is getting cold."

When Michael entered the kitchen, though, he spotted Anton, who sat next to Christina's son, Milo, at the table that was covered in plates, cups and platters of food in the center of the room. Michael halted mid step. "You invited him?" he said to his sister, pointing to the carpenter.

"He's a friend," Christina said, as Anton eyed the surgeon warily.

Michael found Anton's behavior strange. Since last night, now that he thought about it. The man always had his mouth flapping away, going on about the body and soul, and Michael's troubled 'spiritual energy'. "What?" he said to the Anton, regarding his staring. "You going to tell me to open my heart and embrace every living soul I come across? Did you finally run out of bullshit?"

"Michael," his sister spoke again, warningly.

Michael looked toward her, blinking. He didn't know what had gotten into him, had made him just say that. He was notoriously known for being brutally honest, but he would not have usually said that aloud. Michael awkwardly sat down in his usual spot next to Milo at the table.

Anton didn't say anything, but instead only continued to watch the doctor, as though there was something evil in him.

Michael looked up, thinking of something to say that would launch into a conversation. It was painfully silent as he glanced at the food, which was untouched. He raised his eyebrows. "I thought you weren't expecting me."

"I invited you to dinner, Michael, I was expecting you," Christina said, chuckling a bit. He was glad she was quick to forget how he'd reacted rudely to the carpenter. Actually, he was glad that despite all he'd done to disappoint her, she still talked to him like he was a good bigger brother.

"Well, I hate to keep you waiting any longer."

Christina was the last one to sit down. "Dig in, everybody." There was a clatter of silverware as those around the table reached to fill their plates and began to put food in their mouths.

"This is delicious," Anton eventually broke the silence. He'd stopped staring at Michael, and then had begun not looking at him at all. He politely shoveled a spoonful of tuna casserole into his mouth as Christina responded with a grin.

"Thanks. I'm very talented when it comes to following the recipe on the back of the box," she said.

"So, Milo," Michael said, setting down his fork and looking at his nephew. "I heard you joined a club in school."

"Oh, that," the dark-haired boy responded. He looked so different from his mother, who had lighter, blonde hair. Yet, he always seemed to get into trouble, and if Michael remembered correctly, Christina had been quite a pistol when they were kids. "It's a ski club. It's awesome. Last week, Frankie Caleb tripped while walking with his skis on. He crashed flat on his face." Milo smiled.

Michael thought. "Isn't that the kid who was annoying you last year?"

By the way Milo's grin grew wider, the doctor knew the answer without having to hear it, and he chuckled. _Even if there is no such thing as karma, people still manage to get what's coming for them._ Michael coughed a bit, and whether it was because of the excessive seasoning on the food, or because he was getting sick he couldn't tell. Though, he had seemed to be catching quite a cold as of late.

There was a short silence while those around the table chewed and swallowed, or sipped at their drink. Overall, the room was very quiet, and Christina seemed to take notice. She stood, her chair scraping against the linoleum floor. "I'll put on some music," she said in her usual soft, polite voice. Then she disappeared as she exited the kitchen.

"So, uh, I'm going to a campout this weekend," Milo broke the prevailing silence.

"Oh, really," Michael said. "With friends?"

The boy nodded. "I think you know at least one of them. I'm going with Tommy, Morgan, and Bax. It's gonna be like a four day thing, no Wi-Fi or anything." He leaned in and whispered, "Promise not to tell Mom, but Bax is bringing fireworks. There's an advantage to having no connection to the outside world."

Michael shook his head. Milo was incredibly like Christina, when she'd been his age. "I was never much one for camping. Not really my thing. But your mom, she loved going outside, getting dirty."

His nephew scrunched up his nose as he pulled his eyebrows into a small frown. "Mom? Really?"

"Being an adult irons you out, makes you tough and mean," Christina said jokingly, from the doorway. "Milo, could you come here, I can't find the iPod. You were the last to use it."

Milo set down his fork. "Be right back." He walked out past his mom, and she followed behind.

Michael glanced over at Anton. "Looks like it's just you and me." Anton peered across the table at the surgeon, but did not respond. "Why have you just stopped talking, all of a sudden?"

Anton looked grave. The surgeon hadn't noticed it before, but the man's features were set like stone. The carpenter finally spoke, and when he did, it was quiet. "I thought you hated it when I talked."

"Yeah, I do. But you're acting strange, and staring at me like I'm a malevolent tumor. That's no better."

Anton shook his head. "No, Brother Mike, I'm looking at you like you havea tumor inside you. It's…something else. There is an evil inside you."

Michael snorted. "Yeah," he said, "I'm pretty sure the only evil inside me is that tuna casserole."

"I can feel something." Anton closed his eyes.

"Yeah, well, feel somewhere else."

The man's eyes flew open. "An extraction may work, you have to let me try-"

"Wait. You think there's another ghost following me around? That's ridiculous."

"It's been awhile since you've seen Anna, hasn't it?" He looked at the neurosurgeon, still fear in his eyes. "You've been having trouble sleeping, I bet. Something is…haunting you in your dreams."

"It, actually, was better when you were quiet-" Michael began, standing, his chair moaning as suddenly the weight on top of it shifted.

Just then Christina came rushing in. "I heard a chair. Michael, what are you doing?"

He already had a hand on the doorknob. "Really sorry, but I have to go. I'm needed back at Holt Neuro." The door slammed shut behind him.

Anton looked at Christina, and she looked back at him, her mouth agape.

"Don't blame him," Anton said softly, his eyes apologetic. "He's not himself."

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The next few days at work consisted of Michael arriving at Clinica Sanado and doing his best to ignore Anton. The carpenter seemed to think that Michael was going to drop dead right there on the floor if he did not keep an eye on him, which annoyed the hell out of the neurosurgeon.

Soon, however, Anton's words began getting to Michael as he realized how much Anton could interpret by just looking at him. Sure, anyone could take one look at him and see that he was sleep deprived and had a cold, but not that he hadn't seen his dead ex-wife in quite some time. Or, not even that he couldn't sleep because the same black, nightmarish figure was stalking him in his sleep. Somehow, Anton could read Michael…though there was no way Michael would ever admit to believing in the things the carpenter spoke of, the ghosts and 'spiritual energies'. There was no way at all…

The sleepless nights had become less frequent as something seemed to be holding the nightmares back. He still had them, of course, the figure looming over him, each time ending with him jumping into his own body, which would be lying in his bed. Sometimes, he'd be in the dead place, but the thing would never show up, leaving him sitting next to his bed, anticipation making him heavy with dread, watching himself kick and turn in his bed. He was experiencing a strong deactivation of the visual cortex, while activating the left side of several areas associated with kinesthetic imagery. It was only an illusion created by his brain, an illusion that revisited him almost every night. It was called an 'out-of-body-experience' or an 'astral trip' by most, but Michael looked at it the way he thought it should be looked at: as a phenomenon of the human brain. There was nothing at all supernatural about it, and he was overreacting.

Each time he woke up after a nightmare, he became more tired than he was before sleeping, as if he was a battery that was unable to be recharged. He felt himself draining, yet he wished not to sleep, for fear of having to say hello once again to the thing. The thing, that, with each night's sleep, seemed to get closer to him. First, it appeared in the clinic in Exam Room 7, then on the other side of his desk at Holt Neuro, then in his kitchen in his apartment. The last time he'd gotten a visit from his insistent friend, it'd been watching him from the crack in the door that connected his kitchen to his bedroom, staring with burning eyes, looking almost _hungry _as it stalked his slumbering body. He'd woken up and found scratch marks in that same door, made with what looked like jagged fingernails. There had even been a small amount of blood that accented the cuts in the wood, where flesh had been caught on splinters. Michael had gotten a test done to see whose blood it was.

It had been his. It was very rare that someone else who'd broken into his apartment would just happen to have AB- blood, also. Perhaps this was why it wasn't as much of a surprise when Michael looked down to notice that his fingers were scraped up, small shards of wood stuck underneath his fingernails.

That day at the clinic, Michael was very shaky. He'd excused himself from work between patients to grab a cup of coffee, hoping his headache was only due to his withdrawal from caffeine; he hadn't had any yet that morning, and without it he got jittery. Though, something in him told him it wasn't a lack of caffeine making him apprehensive.

The coffee makers sat on a low table and made a grinding noise as they spat out the hot, black fluid. The fragrance was prominent in the air, and the warmth and familiarity of it made Michael shiver. He wrapped his arms around himself and sniffled. It had been over a week, and his cold had failed to get any better. It'd been pretty hard to breathe recently, because of stress, or because of his congested nasal passages, Michael couldn't tell. While waiting impatiently for his coffee, however, his foot tapping incessantly on the floor, he decided it was most likely because of both, and also because he'd be dead before the coffee was done being made.

"Someone looks troubled. No coffee this morning?" Kate came up beside him. He nodded. "Did you get that sleep prescribed to you?"

Michael sighed, fed up with the way everyone was treating him like he was clinically sick. "Please…don't," he said, rubbing his tired eyes.

"Take that as a no, then."

The coffee maker sputtered and gurgled, the grand finale before it let out the last drop of coffee and the noises died. Michael moved forward, grabbing a cup. His hand visibly shook, even though the cup was empty. He tried to hide it from Kate, but she'd already seen. He could tell by the look on her face. Michael dismissed it with a small laugh. "Caffeine withdrawal," he told her. He continued to pick up the coffee pot and pour some into his cup, attempting to reduce the amount his hands were shaking. "Need to get back to a patient." He set down the pot and took long strides toward the back hallway, trying to escape Kate. Michael didn't want her to suspect anything more than sleep deprivation.

"Michael, wait."

He jumped, her voice so close so quickly, and in a flash there was coffee all over the floor. He cursed, leaning over to sop it up, though he realized once he was down that he had nothing to do that with. So he picked up the now empty paper cup and rubbed his eyes again. _Shit. _There was no way Kate wouldn't notice _this. _

He heard Kate asking a nurse for something, though he couldn't hear what it was. His ears were ringing and his head felt like someone was repeatedly pounding it with a hammer. The world around Michael seemed to fade away as he was left staring at the spilt blackish-brown fluid, his mouth opening and closing, not knowing what to say. Finally, as he stood, he found words, though they were as shaky as his hands. "Y-You scared me. Made me jump."

Kate gave him a look and put her hands on her hips. "You need a check-up."

Michael seemed bewildered. "I'm a grown man!"

"Doesn't mean your health is any less important," she answered, nodding and saying a soft 'thank you' as the same nurse she'd spoken to earlier handed her a roll of paper towels.

Michael blew hot air out through his mouth. "Treating me like a child," he mumbled, so low as to not let Kate hear. He looked around nervously, like he'd miraculously find someone to defend him, but he knew that no one would. They'd all noticed his change in behavior as of late, they'd all shown that they were worrying about him. It was doubtful any of them would choose to defend his pride above his health. He crouched so he was level with the other doctor, who'd begun cleaning up the mess, and assisted her.

"So, anything you want to tell me, doctor?" she said eventually.

Michael paused. "Nope."

She put her wet paper towel clump down on the floor and stared at him. "I don't believe you."

"You should, because there is absolutely nothing wrong with me."

A rattling came from the end of the hallway. It was one of the adults who worked at the clinic, pushing a mop in front of him. He seemed to be coming to Michael's aid. Michael was so glad he almost yelled his gratitude at the man, but he figured at the last second that that would be an unwise choice. So instead, he got up, said, "The patient I mentioned earlier? They're back at Holt Neuro. So, uh, I'm just going to go now," and hurriedly made his way to the back door, nearly tripping over the mop as he did so.


	4. Chapter 4

Enveloped in the soft covers of his bed, he opened his eyes, even though he'd only just closed them. Michael's confusion was only momentary; it fizzled away in mere seconds. Again, he was in the dead place, surrounded by what looked like his bedroom, but what he knew really couldn't be. He instantly looked toward the doorway where he'd last seen the dark figure, but all he saw was the dark kitchen beyond. He calmed a little, but did not get out of his bed, wrapping the blankets around his body in refusal. No matter how many times he visited this place, he still never managed to warm up to it.

"Daddy?" came a small voice from the other side of the bed.

Michael's heart jumped into his throat as he turned to look for the voice. What he saw was a young boy, who couldn't have been over the age of ten. The boy had blonde hair, and large eyes that peered at him with a mixture of emotions. All at once he looked excited, anxious, curious, and hurt, more feelings portrayed than Michael ever thought possible by any child. Yet, there the kid sat before him.

"Who-who're you?" Michael whispered. It was the first time anyone had ever spoken to him in his nightmares.

The boy was quiet. He looked close to tears for a moment, before frowning and peering at the ground with his big, sad eyes. That was when Michael suddenly recognized him, memories that he'd tried so hard to dam coming crashing through. Even as he laid there, his breath taken away for almost a full minute, he couldn't do anything to keep the pain from stabbing through his heart. _Of course _he knew who it was that those deep blue eyes and rosy cheeks belonged to, that shaggy dirty-blonde hair.

"Dalton?" he said, even quieter than his prior question. He frowned, until the child, _his _child, jumped onto his chest, laughing with joy, a bright smile lighting up his face. Dalton no longer seemed a lost puppy. The frown dissolved off Michael's face as he grunted with the force of Dalton jumping onto his chest. Eventually he returned the warm hug his child gave him. "Easy there, bud," he said.

Did Dalton forgive him? Why else would the boy be so quick to smile at finding him there in his apartment? Had Dalton been searching, or did there happen to be another reason he was so far away from his home, his mom, his brother, and his baby sister? Questions flooded through Michael's mind.

But suddenly, Michael became grave. He stiffened. This Dalton wasn't real, just something in Michael's nightmare. The boy's forgiveness couldn't be real, either. The whole thing was unbelievable, anyway. His mind was torturing him, crushing him.

Dalton began crying. It was quiet; Michael could only tell the boy was weeping because of his occasional small sniffles and shaky breaths.

Why was his mind doing this to him? _How? _He hadn't seen Dalton in such a long time, he was older now, looked different. How did his dreams know what his child looked like now? Was this image of Dalton all manufactured in Michael's head?

"Daddy?" Dalton shook, noticing the change in his father's posture.

Michael looked into the boy's blue eyes, almost scared, and nodded. "What is it, Dalton?" he said, and though he tried hard, because it was all so _real, _he couldn't manage to hide how flat his voice was.

The joy in his son's mask of mixed emotions melted away, leaving the boy looking grim, frightened, and bewildered. The face he made appeared hard and hopeless. "You don't love me," he said, his voice as small as his hope.

Michael shook his head. _No. _He wanted to say it, but it felt as though there was a brick caught in his throat, so all he could do was shake his head no, no, _no. _He wished so badly to find his voice, to comfort his son the way he used to.

"I think that's why you left us," Dalton continued, filling the silence with his hurt whispers, his ocean blue eyes pools of tears. "Mom, Cal, Foster, and me. You stopped loving us."

It didn't matter whether Dalton was real or not, Michael was overwhelmed. The boy who sat in his lap had become frozen. Michael felt frozen, too, held in place by his guilt, which filled him like cement, hardening slowly, suffocating him. The truth was, he'd left Renai and the children because of the looks they incessantly had given him after the night, the one he had difficulty recalling. Had he gotten too drunk to remember that he'd done something terribly wrong? What _had _he done, anyway? Every time he'd asked Renai to please, _please _explain what he was at fault for, she'd only shake her head and turn away. She'd begun rarely speaking to him, and every night in bed she'd turn on her side, facing away from him. He'd tried and tried, fueled by the last strings of hope he possessed inside him. Eventually, he'd started sleeping on the couch, and immersed himself in his work as a teacher. It wasn't only her, either. Sometimes, he'd catch Foster with the same look of terror in his eyes, and he noticed the boy had been ignoring him. Michael had been Josh at the time, Josh Lambert. When he finally moved away to New York, deciding to start a new life, he went from being Josh, a father working hard at a high school just to pay off the bills for his family's new house, to a successful neurosurgeon who lived alone and didn't care much for other people. Michael Holt's new life was far easier.

But now there was this. His guilt arriving at his front door, haunting him, telling him that it'd never really left him. Michael had become calloused and uncaring in an attempt to forget and to never be hurt the same way again. But now, as he watched his oldest child in front of him, saying that Michael didn't love him, with eyes so deep he could drown in them, he knew that the life he was living may have been easier, but it was also lonelier. Even the thirteen years he'd spent studying medicine when he was younger, the constant reading, locked away in a room with a textbook and a mound of notes every night, did not compare to his life in his empty apartment.

After graduating from medical school, Michael had worked with Anna, what he liked to call, "treating scratched elbows and wiping runny noses." Very shortly after leaving Anna, he'd married Renai, another relationship he'd been unable to maintain. The sickening truth all flooded back to him in a crushing tsunami of waterlogged and confusing memories. Michael had worked so hard for so long to erase every trace of his past, to start anew, and for a long while he'd been successful. He had his own practice, for god's sake!

"Daddy," Dalton pulled at his arm with renewed vigor. A fresh terror stirred behind the boy's eyes. "Daddy, wake up. Wake up, Daddy, it's here. A different one this time, but it's coming for you. Daddy, you have to wake up! Hurry. _Hurry!_" He glanced toward the door to the kitchen, his eyes growing wider as the seconds passed by.

Before he had a chance to follow the boy's eyes, Michael stiffened against his will. Something frigid, its touch so very _cold, _stung his neck. His blood pumped like ice water through his veins and his breath puffed from his cracked lips like smoke from a locomotive. He was paralyzed, and Dalton backed away from him with one last forlorn look, and ran from him. Michael's eyes followed him, and the man wished direly to run with the boy, to be free of the nightmare.

Then, Michael was thrown from the bed. With a sickening, fleshy thud, he landed on the carpet beside his bed. Pushing himself back up to his knees, he looked up to see his body lying on the bed, fading. It was one of the strangest things Michael had ever seen. His own unconscious body was fading quickly out of existence, disappearing without him in it. Though nothing like what was happening had ever occurred before, Michael had a sense of dread in his stomach that if his body left, he'd be stranded in his hellish nightmare. So, with his last ounce of strength, he pounced back onto the bed and into his body.

Instantly, he awoke to find himself in his apartment, soaked in cold sweat. The covers of his bed were thrown to the ground, and the door to the kitchen was wide open.

Michael reached for his phone, mopping his damp hair off his forehead and taking deep breaths. He nearly fell off the bed again when he saw that it was a quarter past twelve. Also, multiple messages and missed calls popped onto his screen. How had he slept for so long?

Light streamed through the windows in his apartment, chasing away the shadows that hung in the cooler corners of his room. The sun was low in the pellucid sky, and a solitary bird sung a scattered tune. The usual honking and grinding sounds of cars on pavement came from the traffic on the streets below as the people of Manhattan went about their usual business. With not even a subtle breeze pressing against the apartment's windows, everything seemed surprisingly tranquil, and Michael was overwhelmed with a sense of peace he hadn't experienced in quite a while. He felt oddly light and unconcerned.

Figuring he had slept for long enough, Michael took a quick shower, threw some clothes on, and made a steamy cup of coffee, followed by a plate of eggs, sunny-side-up. He drove into the clinic that afternoon around one o'clock, a lazy smile plastered to his face, and not a single worry on his mind.

"You look better," Zeke said almost suspiciously as Michael passed by him to get to the front door. He held a cigarette in his hand and narrowed his eyes at the neurosurgeon. "What? You inject morphine or something? You seem happier all of a sudden."

Michael shook his head and entered the clinic.

"Someone got a good day's sleep, huh?" Kate said with a barely suppressible smile when she spotted him from across the room.

"I guess so," Michael said, still with his lazy smile on his face.

The front door opened, and both doctors turned their heads at the sound in time to watch Zeke enter, followed by a young mother, who carried what looked like an eight-year-old girl in her arms. In a panicked voice, she said something in Spanish. Zeke spoke to her soothingly in Spanish, his voice too soft to hear. "Her daughter fell, scraped up her leg real bad," he said to Kate, who had rushed up to help.

"We better get her into an exam room then," Kate said with a reassuring smile. She carefully took the girl from the mother's arms, all the while Zeke speaking to the woman.

Michael stopped Kate before she disappeared into the back of the clinic. "Let me take this," he said. "I haven't gotten much done in the last few days."

Kate nodded. "Alright," she replied. "It just looks like a little blood. She has a few scrapes, that's all."

Michael followed Kate into an exam room, where she set the girl down on the chair. "Doctor Holt is going to take care of you," she said kindly to the girl. She stood, and before walking from the room she said to Michael, "I'm gonna go talk to Zeke and the mother. Maybe I can get some info from them."

Michael felt relieved when she left. It was refreshing to finally have responsibilities again, even if it was just a few simple scrapes and cuts. He turned to the little girl who sat in the exam chair, swinging her dangling legs back and forth. She stared back up at him expectantly.

"Am I going to die?" she asked.

Michael ignored the question. "I'm just going to disinfect the wound and bandage it up, and then you'll be ready to go." He prepared the material he'd need while she watched.

"Doctor Holt?" she said.

"Uh-huh?"

"Why are you so happy?"

Michael had no answer for her. He didn't wonder about the question, either. He was blissfully and docile enjoying himself, and he wasn't going to question his own cheerfulness, for fear that it would vanish.

"Doctor Holt?" she said again.

"Uh-huh?"

"Why are you hurting yourself?"

"Huh?" His gaze fell down to his hand. It was covered in his own warm blood, which gushed hotly between his fingers and underneath his fingernails. In his other hand he held a scalpel. Its razor-sharp edge was a deep crimson. "Look at that," he said, the familiar lazy smile creeping back onto his face. He seemed amused, and a slight laugh bubbled up from within his throat. He lowered the scalpel back down to his bleeding hand and pressed the blade into his flesh.

"What are you doing? Don't hurt yourself!" the girl said. Then, when he only pressed the blade further in, she began to scream. "Doctor Holt! Doctor Holt, stop it!"

"What the hell?!" Zeke yelled, rushing in through the open door way. As soon as he saw what was happening, he grabbed the scalpel from Michael and pulled the man out of the room just as Kate ran in, the mother close behind her. They went to the girl as Zeke dragged Michael into a separate exam room and shut the door harshly. He turned to the neurosurgeon. "What the hell, man! What the hell were you trying to achieve?" Michael stared at him, a grin still planted on his face.

Zeke went to the opposite corner of the room, pacing in the small amount of space available. He rubbed his forehead in anguish, and reached for a cigarette. After a moment, he removed his hand from his pocket and leaned against the door.

"I don't know what's going on with you, man," Zeke said, his voice quieter. "You haven't been yourself."

Michael watched him, slightly amused. "Exam Room 7," he said.

"You're delirious. You're depressed, you're…something's wrong with you. Something's really, really wrong with you. Why would you do this?" He motioned to Michael's cut hand, which dripped, unattended. A trail of what looked like cherry syrup led to where Michael stood, an absent expression of glee on his face. Zeke grabbed disinfectant and bandages and began to tend to his hand, all the while shaking his head.

"I didn't take you as the kind of person who would do this, you know," Zeke said, disappointment heavy in his voice. "No, the Michael I knew would never do this kind of messed up shit."

"Exam Room 7," Michael said again.

"Will you shut up? Yes, we're in Exam Room 7, I know. Now just give me a fucking explanation, please." Zeke sounded desperate.

"You're great," Michael laughed, shaking his head. "But you're stupid. You _care_."

Zeke was speechless.

"Oh, you bitch," Michael continued. "You care too much, too much."

"Oh, man," Zeke cried. "There is something seriously fucked up about you. Anton was right, you aren't yourself." He set down the supplies he'd gathered and stepped away from the man.

Michael came toward Zeke, his head tilted to one side, his dripping hand making a small puddle on the floor. "Bitch," he snarled.

"You're losing a lot of blood," Zeke warned. "Just let me, uh, fix that up for you, bud. I'll leave you alone after that."

There was a pounding at the door. "Michael?" Kate yelled from the other side. "Zeke? Open up!"

"Whoa, I didn't lock the door," Zeke said to Michael, eyeing him warily. "Did you do that, Michael?"

Michael grabbed the bloody scalpel that Zeke had left in the sink.

"Zeke, what's going on in there? Open up!" Kate yelled. There was more pounding on the door.

The lights flickered. As Michael approached Zeke, the scalpel raised, the sink's drain gurgled, vomiting up black, viscous fluid that splattered onto the floor. The light bulb exploded, sparks flying everywhere until they died out, leaving the men in total darkness.

"Shit," Zeke whispered, scared that if he spoke too loud he might awake some beast that slumbered in the dark. He rummaged through his pockets for a few seconds before finding his cigarette lighter. As he lifted the object into the air and started a flame, he almost dropped it. The flame lit up the dark room, revealing that Michael was nowhere to be seen. "Son of a bitch," Zeke mumbled.

"Does he annoy you?" came a voice from directly behind him. Zeke whipped himself around, where he came face-to-face with Michael, who had blood running down either side of his face, gushing from slits above his eyes and glistening in the light from Zeke's flame. Despite the blood running into his open eyes, Michael didn't blink. His suit was soaked not only with the thick, red liquid, but also with the same black slime that the sink's drain had been retching up. Michael coughed, and black liquid sprayed from his mouth, landing in small droplets all over Zeke's face.

"What the _fuck_," Zeke gasped, spitting it out of his mouth and rubbing it off of his eyes.

"Brother Mike!" yelled Anton from the other side of the door. There came the sound of a drill, and then kicking. Apparently Kate had run to go get the carpenter to break open the door.

"Does Michael annoy you?" asked Michael vehemently, leaning in closer. His breath reeked like roadkill on a blisteringly hot day. "Do you hate him?"

Zeke shook his head hurriedly. "No…no he doesn't. No I don't."

Michael slapped the doctor sharply across the face. "_Liar!_" he hissed, bloody teeth showing. He reeled back for another slap, but suddenly withered. Zeke watched in astonishment as Michael recoiled, and instead slapped himself hard. He glanced guiltily up at Zeke with eyes brimming with regret, and tears fell down his cheeks, clearing paths through the caked-on blood. "I'm sorry," he sputtered. "I-I'm so-" He abruptly stabbed his arm with the scalpel. "I'm sorry!" he screamed.

The man bit his lip and ripped the scalpel out of his flesh. He proceeded to slash at the rest of his exposed skin, crying out in agony every time he did so. "You can't do this!" he yelled hoarsely. "You _can't!_"

"Michael, stop!" Zeke yelled. He had no idea what to do, and if he tried to step forward and stop the man, god only knew what would happen. He glanced around hopelessly, until he had an idea. But his plan wouldn't work without sedatives, which were locked away in a separate room. He recalled something about spirits that Anton had told him days before, that he had originally dismissed as the shaman's usual nonsense. Whatever possessed Michael might not have been human, but Michael's body certainly was. That meant that, even without sedatives, Michael still had to react to certain things…

"_Gah!" _Zeke cried out when the scalpel split through his arm. He looked down at the incision, then cupped his hand over it as it began to leak.

"Man, I'm really sorry about this," Zeke said, too ashamed to look Michael in the face, even as he came toward him with the scalpel raised. Then, in a single, fluid motion, Zeke ripped the fire extinguisher from the wall and cracked Michael over the head with the heavy container.

Michael crumpled and fell to the linoleum tile with a fleshy thud, right as soon as the door to the room was lifted off its hinges. A moment later Kate and Anton came rushing in.

"Oh my god," Kate said, so overwhelmed by what she saw her voice was reduced to a whisper. She leaned down beside Michael.

"It happened sooner than I expected," said Anton grimly.

Zeke took a deep breath. "I hit him in the head, but I don't think he'll stay unconscious forever."

Anton agreed with a curt nod. "I'll have to perform the extraction right now. I just hope that whatever latched onto him doesn't have too tight of a hold."

"What are you talking about?" Kate said, looking up at both men in turn. "You're acting like he's possessed!"

"If I hadn't seen it for myself, I wouldn't have believed it either," Zeke said. He sighed, and looked down at Michael's lifeless body. "What the hell happened to you, man?"

Anton had come forward, and was hoisting Michael up onto the exam chair. He began to tie the neurosurgeon to the seat with gauze and medical tape.

"Kate, can you go get a sedative? Something heavy," Zeke asked.

She stared at him for a few seconds, before exiting through the door, shaking her head and muttering, "Crazy bastards."

Once she had left, Zeke watched Anton finish tying Michael to the chair. "That won't hold."

"I'm hoping it won't have to," Anton replied. "It won't if I get this done quickly."

Zeke was quiet for a moment. "Will he be okay?"

"Michael's a very unique individual. If he's what I think he is, then he's had experience with this before, when he was young."

"I can't imagine, god," Zeke said. "He always seemed like such a boring, arrogant, rich, lucky bastard, I never thought about him having a childhood, much less a bad one."

"He's only unlikeable because he pretends to be," Anna said, suddenly appearing. Neither of the men could see her, though. Anton, however, suddenly stood erect.

"She's here," he said.

"Who? Who's here? Don't tell me it's another creepy-ass demon or ghost," Zeke said.

"No, no, a demon would require an exorcism. You don't have to worry about this spirit, though. I sense her positive energy." Anton smiled, glancing around the room, which was empty, except for Zeke. "Hello Anna," he said.

"Hello, Anton," she replied, though her voice was unheard. She approached Michael, where she began stoking the unconscious neurosurgeon's hair. "I'm sorry I was gone," she whispered into his ear. "I was scared. But you're gonna get better. You're getting help now."

Kate reappeared with the heaviest sedative the clinic had in stock, and her and Zeke worked quickly to get it injected into Michael. Once they had that done, they turned to Anton expectantly, waiting for him to begin the extraction. Anton, however, did not.

"What are you waiting for?" Anna cried, though no one heard her. She was becoming increasingly unsettled by the moment. Whatever was inside Michael wasn't going to sit still for long, even with the sedative pumping through Michael's veins. Anna could feel the energy emitted from the parasitic spirit, which came from her ex-husband in crashing waves and grew as the seconds sloughed on by.

"I can't start the extraction without the required materials," Anton said. "Luckily I have a bag I keep here in the clinic with those materials in it. I'll be right back." He jogged out of the room.

Kate met eyes with Zeke, her consternation evident on her face. "What exactly happened in here?"

Zeke shifted where he stood as he attempted to fathom words which could briefly supply an answer to her question. "I don't really know," he admitted. "It was nothing I've ever seen before."

Suddenly, Michael twitched, causing both Zeke and Kate to jump. The neurosurgeon remained unconscious, and the two exchanged a look.

"Uh, Anton?" Zeke called, eyeing Michael warily. "Anytime now."

"I sent the woman who was here away after finishing bandaging her daughter's leg," Kate informed him. "If whatever is happening gets too crazy, she won't be in harm's way."

Zeke nodded. "Good thinking." Then, he glanced over towards the unconscious neurosurgeon again. "I remember Anton did this extraction thing on one of Michael's patients before, when the patient had a voice in his head that he couldn't get rid of. I thought the person having the extraction done on them had to give their consent or something."

"They do," Anton said, slipping back into the room. He placed a brown, cylindrical bag on the counter next to the sink, after using a paper towel to mop up some of the black liquid droplets that had sprayed from the sink's drain. "I'm afraid that will the most difficult part of this. We have to communicate with Michael, and get him to push out the spirit himself."

Kate was dubious. "How are we going to do that? We just sedated him!"

"Yeah, I don't think he's gonna be able to have a chat with you when he wakes up, either, because Michael's not in charge," Zeke said. "I think he was there, briefly. He said he was sorry, and that's all he kept saying."

"This means he's still in contact with his body," Anton informed. "Good. Maybe communication will be easier than I expected." He rummaged through his bag until he pulled three candles, which he placed on the counter. Tossing a pack of matches to Zeke, he instructed: "Light these and dim the lights." The doctor did so as Anton continued to pull objects from within his bag.

Kate watched. "How are we going to talk to him?"

Anton stepped back once all of the necessary supplies were laid on the counter. It was darker in the room now, most of the light emanating from the flickering flames of the candles. They cast a wavering, warm glow, and caused shadows to dance across the carpenter's grim, stone-set face. "We need to make a connection to the spirit world. I believe he's partly stuck there. If I perform the beckoning ritual, though, we might be able to pull him back completely into his body for long enough to push out the vile energy that's inside him."

Kate released a shaky sigh. "Let's do it, then."

"Actually," Anton said. "I'm afraid I'll have to do this alone. Brother Mike will need full concentration, and so will I."

"And leave you alone with whatever's in Michael?" Zeke exclaimed. "Are you out of your mind? There's no way in hell-" He stopped abruptly when Kate placed a tender hand on his arm.

"Michael's in trouble, Zeke," she said softly. "We need to do this." She kept solid eye contact with the doctor until he reluctantly backed away. Then, she turned her attention to Anton. "Can we at least be here when you talk to him?"

Anton nodded, then turned to his supplies and grabbed a bundle of what appeared to be dried grass. "Sage," he explained, after receiving questioning looks. "It will clear a path, so he can hopefully climb back in and regain momentary control." After carefully dipping the bundle into one of the candle's flames, Anton lifted the sage into the air, where it smoldered. Small embers fell to the floor when he blew on it, fading like insignificant and fleeting lives before they even reached the linoleum tile. Anton brought the sage towards Michael, where he waved it slowly around the neurosurgeon, dousing the man in an opaque and ghastly smoke. "Come to us, Brother Mike. Find your way back where you belong."

The two doctors and the carpenter watched in silence with hope in their eyes. Seconds passed. Soon, a whole minute dragged by them, as slowly as a shot bird. Yet, the body before them didn't even twitch a finger.

"I've never come face-to-face with such a strong, malevolent force," Anton confessed. "I don't know whether Michael even _can _resurface at this point."

"Are you saying we might not be able to get him back?" Kate asked brokenly.

When Anton didn't respond, Zeke quietly commented, "If Michael's gone, then we have to kill him. The thing inside him is too dangerous."

"It won't come to that, it can't!" Anna said from where she sat on the counter. Of course, no one noticed.

"I can try again, it's possible that he just needs a little more help-"

Someone coughed. Kate, Zeke, and Anton all exchanged glances. None of them had made the noise.

"Anna?" Michael croaked. He stirred, squinting.

"Yes! Yes Michael, I'm here!" Anna responded, her eyes burning with hot tears of relief. "I'm here, I'm here."

He pulled his lips back into a weak smile and coughed again. "You're acting like you've just seen a ghost."

Kate looked at Zeke, who shrugged. "Who's he talking to?" she asked out loud.

Michael craned his neck to find who had spoken. When he spotted the three watching him, he frowned. "Looks like a party," he said, nodding towards Anton's extraction materials. "What's going on?"

"Brother Mike, there's a spirit inhabiting your body."

Michael's frown deepened. He looked over at the other two. "Kate, Zeke. What going on?"

"Hate to admit it, but he's telling the truth," Zeke answered.

The neurosurgeon moaned as he buried his head disdainfully in his hands. "No, not again," he whimpered. "Why does this always happen to me? Why?"

"This happened before?" Zeke said, his expression incredulous.

Michael didn't respond, but instead pinched the bridge of his nose. He squeezed his eyes shut, as though if he tried hard enough he could wake up from this nightmare he was living. "So what did you do?" he asked, looking at the others. "How did you get rid of it?"

"Uh, it's still there."

Michael groaned once again, this time in exhaustion. "I was really hoping I'd misheard you." He glanced down at the profound amount of gauze and medical tape that bound him to the exam chair. "Well," he said, "how are you talking to me, then? I have a difficult time believing this thing just stepped aside so we could have a little talk."

"We sedated it heavily," Kate informed.

"Wait a minute," he said, rubbing his forehead in confusion. "If you put sedatives into my body, how am I able to move right now, to talk to you? This doesn't make sense."

"None of this does," Zeke agreed.

"Brother Mike, the energy inside you is growing stronger again." Anton frowned, the shadows emphasizing every line in his face, making him look older and weathered. "It's burning away the sedative, which won't hold it back forever. I can perform an extraction, but I need your help."

"Just tell me what to do."

Anton glanced over towards Kate and Zeke, who took their cue and left the room. Zeke muttered under his breath unhappily as he walked out through the doorway.

"When I tell you to, I want you to imagine that you're channeling the spirit's energy away from you, out of you. Imagine that the energy is flowing through your arm and into this crystal, where it will be stored." Anton held up a purple, cleanly cut crystal for Michael to see.

"That small thing? You sure this is going to work?"

Anton shook his head. "I hope so."

"Well, that's very reassuring," Michael mumbled.

"We already know where the energy is located within you," Anton began, ignoring the neurosurgeon's sarcasm. "Since it is inhabiting you, its strongest hold of you is in your core." The carpenter lit the sage again, and blew on it gingerly. He waved it around Michael in an arching motion.

The lights turned on and flickered, and Michael yelped. He recoiled back into the chair, as though trying to sink into himself. Clamping his hands on either side of his head, he choked out, "I th-think it's waking up."

Anton grabbed Michael's hand and stuffed the crystal into it. "Remember what I told you about imagining the energy leaving? Do that now! Expel it!"

Michael squeezed his eyes shut in concentration. Immediately he began to flinch, as though some unseen person was standing before him, whipping him. The lit candles danced wilder than before, making the shadows chase after the light their flames emitted like a game of predator and prey, the dark devouring the light.

"Channel the energy away!" Anton encouraged. "It's fighting back, but right now, _you _are stronger!"

"I…doubt that," replied Michael, cringing in agony. He bit his lower lip firmly, and began to taste a familiar warm, coppery flavor. A sudden stinging sensation bit into his side, and he writhed in his cocoon of gauze and medical tape that kept him pressed against the chair. "Fuck!" he screamed. "I can't!"

"Yes, you can. _Push the spirit out!_"

Blood dripped down his chin as a heat more blistering than molten rock spread through his body and a burning feeling lingered behind his eyeballs. His ears burned hot and he felt his lungs cease to function as his breath was greedily torn from his throat, his lungs all the while protesting with a series of wheezing, choking noises. Michael clutched his thighs with a tight grip, then sunk his fingernails into them through his pants. His legs twitched, like a dying rabbit that was ripped to shreds by a coyote, in response. "No, no…_no!_" he screeched. Tears streamed down his cheeks at a rapid rate, clearing some of the old, dried blood that came from the healing abrasions on his temples. Clear mucus glistened on Michael's upper lip, more of it streaming from his nose. Soon, the liquid running from his nostrils changed to a dark, crimson color, and it gushed out at a harrowing rate, pouring into his agape mouth and onto his neck. The blood got everywhere, including on Michael's white shirt and tie. It was a startling contrast from the neurosurgeon's paper-white skin, which did not have blood pumping underneath it, but shards of glass, which tore at his insides.

"I have faith in you, Brother Mike!"

Michael threw his head back and howled in anguish as a fresh bolt of pain wracked through his very being. The abrasions on his temples had begun leaking again, the metallic scent of his own blood burrowing its way into his nose and hanging there, heavy and sickly. He clawed blindly at the gauze that bound him, leaving patches of red on the bandages from his cracked and bleeding fingernails.

"Concentrate, just imag-"

Michael's head snapped in Anton's direction, and for a moment he sat perfectly still, his eyes, buried in a face covered in blood and bruises, boring into Anton's. Michael smiled a maniacal red grin. "You little hippy ratshit _fuck_," he spat venomously.

"No, no, fight it. _Fight it!_" Anton seized Michael's hand that held the crystal, and shoved it closer to the neurosurgeon's heart. "Imagine it draining into the crystal!" Anton's voice was hoarse, and it cracked as he continued to yell to Michael, the _real _Michael.

"You know," Michael said, his voice sharp and curt, like the slash of a whip. "He really despises you. All you ever do is stick your greedy nose in his own business." He laughed hysterically. "It drives him fucking _insane._"

"Brother Mike, listen to me!"

"No!" he demanded. "_You _listen to _me_. I don't give a shit whether this bitch comes out alive!" Michael drew his fist back, then threw a punch so forceful that he fell back fully against the exam chair. Then, more laughter bubbled up his throat, spilling from his lips like vomit. "See?" he exclaimed gleefully. "I can _feel _him squirming around, scratching, trying desperately to climb back up. But I'm him now, and anything he does to me, he only harms himself. Oh, and this pain"- he locked both his hands tight around his neck and crushed against it with all his force, making himself gasp –"I haven't experienced it in so long, and the feel of it is _so _sweet, almost _erotic._"

"If you're still in there, Broth-"

Anton was cut off by a sudden loud sob. "I'm sorry," Michael choked out. "It's too powerful."

"It's not your fault," Anton told him. "And I know that you can do this. You're just not concentrating."

There was a rigid knocking at the door. "What's going on in there?" Zeke yelled, his voice muffled.

"Don't come in!" Anton shot back in return with an increasing sense of urgency. Michael convulsed behind him, drawing his attention back. "The spirit doesn't want to leave you, but you have to fight!"

"What the hell do you think I've been trying to do?" Michael muttered through strained gasps for air. Perspiration coated him as though he had just emerged from a pool of sweat.

Anton threw open the cabinets and drawers, in search of gauze, but it had all apparently been used to tie Michael to the exam chair. Anton sighed and quickly glanced around the room, looking for an alternative option. He settled on a half-used roll of paper towels which lay on its side on the counter, ripping off a large sheet and coming back to Michael, where he patted the sweat and blood off of the man's forehead, encouraging him all the while like he was Michael's personal trainer.

Michael sat still for a while, panting exhaustedly. His suffering was a hurricane of unbearable, cruel stinging and grinding sensations that tore him apart inside and out, that made him yearn desperately for an immediate and brief resolve that would allow him to escape the agony. At that moment, however, Michael was in the eye of the hurricane; he had a crushing premonition of the danger that was still yet to come, and even as he inexplicably for the moment he was filled with an almost Zen sense of calm, he at the same time was cumbered by a painful dread that sat heavily at the bottom of his stomach like molten lead. The malevolent energy inside him wasn't done yet, and Michael had the worst feeling that it was holding back much of its strength.

"Brother Mike."

Michael looked up at Anton, who hovered close by. "Huh?" he said.

"Why are you grabbing my arm?"

Michael looked down to see that, indeed, he was holding the carpenter's arm captive, his fingernails digging into the arm's tender flesh. The neurosurgeon blinked despondently, his mouth suddenly paralyzed. He struggled to form words, but all that came out was a morose moan; it seemed that soon the eye would move on, and Michael would be left vulnerable to the full vicious force of the hurricane that swarmed around him like a frightful cloud of buzzing, swarming bees.

"Ouch." Anton pulled his arm away stiffly and rubbed it, cautiously eyeing Michael. When he turned to reach for something from his bag, he was knocked out cold by a firm-knuckled fist which swung at him unexpectedly and from behind him. It collided with the tender flesh at the back of his skull, and he was unconscious in an instant, his feet wheeling about as though he were a cartoon character, and his arms flopping uselessly as his limp body fell abruptly and unceremoniously to the floor. He landed with a thud, his skull making a grotesque, heavy tapping noise as it bounced off the tile a couple times.

Michael shook his head, as though clearing away a fog, and blanched at what he saw. He stared shamefully at his hand, which hung lamely at his side, still shaped in a fist. He wanted desperately for his guilty hand, which had swung without his control, to be anywhere else. He grew sick looking at it, and he turned his head away contritely, averting his eyes. After a few seconds had passed, he swallowed thickly, and leaned down to check if Anton was injured, his head swirling, and the world toppling around him. When he was finished, he shakily stood, stepped back so his back was flat against the cold wall, and released an exasperated moan.

"Why are you doing this?" he implored, his voice thick with dread and alarm.

_The little shit deserves much worse. He infuriates you to no end, remember? _

"No one deserves _this_," Michael choked out with a sudden, broken sob, as he unwillingly grabbed hold of the notoriously familiar scalpel, his fingers lacing around its cold, slim metal frame one by one. He reluctantly stepped towards the unconscious man lying on the floor. "Please don't make me do this," he begged desperately. "You can torture me all you want, just don't make me kill."

_But you want this. _

"I'm not a murderer!" Michael cried.

There was no response, but the neurosurgeon felt himself slipping away. The darkness swarmed around him, first in the peripherals of his reeling vision, and soon forming a ghastly blanket over everything before him in a deathly, black haze. He felt himself drift away, and soon everything went entirely black


	5. Chapter 5

Michael came to, disoriented and shoved into the dark corner of a pitifully small coat closet. Clumsily he shoved jackets out of his way, stumbling out into a hallway, which was dimly lit only by emergency lighting. For a moment the man completely forgot where he was, but it only took a second for him to recollect the last things he remembered. His breath hitched in his throat when he moved his fingers and felt that they were wet and warm, something slippery and sticky causing his fingers to slide against each other. "_Shit_," he breathed, feeling suddenly faint. Something bile and repulsive swelled up, filling his throat, and he raced down the hall on weak knees, tumbling haphazardly through the spinning hallway, knocking into the wall as he did so. Soon he reached the bathroom, and he groped in his blindness desperately for the doorknob. When he found it he tore the door open and bolted inside, where he got down onto his knees and leaned over the toilet, the contents of his stomach spilling out and over his lips, rolling down his chin and dripping, a long, stringy stream, into the water. It swirled around in the bowl, refusing to dissolve or mix with the water. Michael heaved, and a hoarse moan escaped his throat as more vomit filled his mouth.

After a minute or two of leaning over the toilet, Michael stumbled back up onto two feet, and using his hands to stay standing, he gingerly made his way to the sink. When he saw his reflection, though, he nearly fell over again. An image of him stood in the mirror, looking back at him with the same expression of horror that he had. His white shirt was saturated with blood – the same blood that dripped viscously from his fingertips and that coated his ripped pant legs.

Michael stared, trembling, as the image of him in the mirror moved, even as Michael himself stood still. His reflection watched him back, and its shared expression of concern slowly morphed into something terrifying. A slow, toothy grin crawled across its face and a devilish twinkle glinted in its eyes.

_You murdered the shaman, _it told him, its sardonic smile widening. _And now his blood is on your hands._

"_No!" _Michael screamed. "_No no no no!" _He reeled back on unsteady feet, holding his hand in the air a millisecond before bringing it forward and smashing it into the mirror's glass face. It made an indignant creaking sound beneath his split knuckles, and the glass succumbed to the pressure forced against it. Fissures webbed out from where his hand had struck it. After pounding it a few more times, his pain staunched by his blind fury and sheer terror, the image of the grinning maniac in the mirror fell to pieces, the glass shattering and crumbling in a shimmering waterfall to the sink, some of the shards with bloody fingerprints smeared on them.

He stumbled back, hot tears prickling at the back of his eyes. "I'm not a murderer," he wailed, collapsing onto the floor, his back sliding down against the bathroom's wall. He began mumbling incoherently, a lump forming in his throat, threatening to suffocate him.

Michael wasn't a murderer. He was sure of it; it wasn't him doing all this. No matter how much he was told otherwise, he would always know that _he _wasn't the one who killed Anton. It was the spirit's fault. Michael couldn't have done anything about it…and yet, an ill sensation still crept over him. What if he was wrong, though? What if there really was no spirit at all, and his suppressed childhood memories were much darker than he thought? What if all these years, he'd been kept in the dark to protect those around him, and not him himself? What if he was delusional, _crazy _even_,_ and everybody was just playing along? Would they do that in an effort to hide the truth from him? Were they telling him lies? Michael suddenly felt like such a fool. Had he been humiliated all this time by the people he had thought of as friends? Had his charity to Clinica Sanando been for nothing? He'd put hard work into improving the daytime clinic, had strived to create a more effective system and to help everybody, juggling this work with his real job at Holt Neuro. He was better than the clinic, why did he ever bother to sink to such a level as to help the rotting shithole out of the ground? Why did he act like a servant, doing every little thing Anna wanted? Anna was dead, and had been for years. He only saw her because he was insane, and Anton only pretended she was real so he could further ostracize the poor neurosurgeon, using his questionable sanity to make his life worse.

Kate and Zeke were in on it, too. Why else would they agree to assist Anton during the "extraction" Anton said he was performing on Michael? They all had an inexplicable vendetta against him, and were working together to reduce him to what he was now, lying broken on the bathroom floor sobbing amid a few stray shards of glass that fell out of the sink and lay on the black tile floor, reflecting the light from above like stars in a night sky. Michael smashed his fist on top of one of one of the splinters in an overwhelming wave of anger that crashed through him, wiping his thoughts clear away, and barely even bit his lip as the glass cut into his skin. He was strong, and no one would take that away from him. He might have been crazy, too, but he was able to stand up for himself, to fight back. He would not let a brainless fuck like Anton and a couple of doctors who worked at a rundown clinic break him.

Michael rose and faced the door, squaring his shoulders and steadying his breathing. The door flew open, knocking hard against the wall behind it with a great slam, the emergency lights flickered, and Michael stepped out of the bathroom.

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The emergency lights that drew power from a small generator that Kate had insisted on investing in wavered incessantly, their yellow, dull glow showering sickly to the linoleum floor at the end of the hallway. The hallway appeared almost infinite, basked in darkness that threatened to swallow Kate and Zeke whole as they cautiously tiptoed through it on light-footed steps. No matter how much they attempted to be quiet, the noise still found them, and they seemed to jump even at the sound of each other's breathing as their hearts raced faster than a jet engine. The old structure around them leaned and moaned, too, as though spooked.

The two had busted into Exam Room 7 after a long and dreadful silence had eerily replaced the commotion that had taken place. The silence had managed to be more disturbing than Michael's howls of pain that had cut through the air like a razor blade and shaved her heart into more little pieces every time she'd heard his awful cry.

What the two had found after barging in was that the room had become silent because there was no longer anyone in it. Michael had disappeared, and so had Anton, though one of them had left a fresh smear of blood on the floor.

"Well, this is not good," Zeke had mumbled, after sighing enormously. Kate had glanced around the room, a controlled look of horror on her face. That was when the lights had gone out, and a nonhuman scream had reverberated through their ears. The two doctors had exchanged a glance, and after Kate had found a flashlight, the two had gone to search the hall, where they were now.

"You know what I think?" Zeke whispered in his gruff smoker's voice, catching up to Kate and tiptoeing at her side. "I think Michael, the crazy bastard, went through the air vents. And he dragged Anton with him, too."

Kate shushed him softly. "Quiet," she mouthed.

"That's what they do in the movies," Zeke continued as though he'd never heard her. "Did you see if the grate was removed?"

"He'll hear you," Kate said, her words as loud as a gentle breeze, but her voice strained. She paused and turned to her left. Searching from the doorway first, she ducked into a separate room, Zeke at her heels. "Hold this," she said to Zeke, handing him the flashlight. Then she turned to the telephone that sat dejectedly on the edge of a clear counter, grabbing the receiver and shakily placing it against her ear.

"You're going to call the police?" Zeke said incredulously, closing the door behind him carefully. He winced when it squeaked on its hinges.

"Apparently not," Kate moaned in frustration, throwing the receiver back onto the switch hook. "Someone cut the line."

Suddenly, there was a solitary knock against the door that made both doctors jump. Neither dared to speak as their breaths hitched in their throats.

"Hello?" came a weak call from behind the door. "Kate? Zeke?"

Michael. Both doctors exchanged a look. Kate shook her head no in a subtle, slow way.

"Guys? Anton did it. He did the extraction. I'm me again." There was a pause. "Come on, open up. It's over."

"Whatever you do," Kate whispered explicitly, "do _not _open that door." Zeke nodded.

There was another pound on the other side. "I know you're in there. And I need your help. _Anton _needs your help. He's injured," the voice whined. "Come on, guys. Open up."

"What if he's telling the truth?" Zeke suggested hopefully. "Anton could have really done it."

Kate shook her head. "Then where's Anton?"

"I left Anton in the trauma room," Michael said, almost as though he'd heard her speak. "He's bleeding out pretty bad. I need your help, and fast." Silence. "Please."

"I don't know," Zeke said in a low tone. "He might not be lying. If Anton _is _really bleeding to death, we'd never forgive ourselves."

"If that were the case, then Michael could do just as good of a job as either of us at saving Anton. Why would he need our help?"

There was another rap at the door. Then, Michael yelled, "Goddammit, I said OPEN UP!" The door blew open on its hinges and a strong coppery odor made Zeke and Kate crinkle their noses in a vain attempt to lessen the scent's impact. Michael stood, his chest rising with each enormous breath he took, an expression of contempt painted on his face and a furious twinkle in his eye. He had the appearance of a madman, taking up the wide doorway with his sudden largeness, his hands outstretched and his lips twisted into a cruel smile.

"Uh, I don't think the extraction worked," Zeke commented, his voice wavering.

"You don't say," Kate replied, gulping. She turned to Michael. "Look, we just want our friend back. Just tell us what you want, and give us Michael back."

The ugly grin stretched wider, until the corners of it were reaching from one ear to the other, displaying a row of flawless, bright teeth. They were still stained slightly red, and the smell of them made Kate recoil as Michael slammed the door shut and strode directly up to her, until his nose was only an inch from hers. "Don't worry, Barbie Doll," Michael enthused, tilting his head to one side and inspecting her, similarly to the way a canine pup would regard an insect. "Here I am."

Kate shook her head. "You're getting nowhere by lying. Tell us what you want, and give us Michael back."

"_I_ am Michael!" he roared impatiently, spit spraying in a fine mist, droplets landing on her face. She flinched in repulsion and wiped some away with her hand. "Is it so hard to believe that I can be this way? You fucks don't even know me, how can you be the ones to judge whether I'm myself or not? You act like you care about getting to know me, but I know it's all a game, that you're doing it just so you can mess with my head. I'm not a fucking _idiot, _you know. I know what you're doing."

"What did you do to Anton?" Zeke said abruptly. Michael turned his head toward the doctor as though noticing him for the first time. Michael stepped closer to him, and Zeke inched back.

"The little bitch that was helping you demeaning bastards?" Michael chuckled. "He's dead. Really, I was surprised at how easy it was to kill him," he said conversationally. "The man was weaker than the cheap words that came out of his mouth. It only took two firm bangs over the head to smash his skull in." Michael laughed jovially. "Cranium soup!" he exclaimed merrily in his fond recollection.

"You're sick," Zeke spat. "You're really, really sick."

"Michael, listen to me. Fight this," Kate said.

Michael glared at her. "I'm hurt. You don't recognize me?" he pouted mockingly. Suddenly, his expression grew overcast, and he began to shout. "I have _very _little patience with you two. It would be much nicer if I slaughtered you both at the same time, huh? What do you think about that idea?" He pulled the scalpel out of his pocket. The sight of it instantly made Zeke and Kate step back.

"Whoa there," Zeke said, raising his hands defensively. "Michael, you don't wanna do this."

"It's in your head," Kate added. "This isn't really you."

"You think this is the _spirit_ controlling me?" Michael trembled with laughter that cut like the scalpel in his hand. "If anyone's trying to tell me to do something, it's you two. You're just like two annoying flies that won't drop dead. So"- Michael pounced forward, grabbing Kate by the forearm and kicking Zeke forcefully in the groin so he fell to the ground in agony, allowing Michael to freely raise the scalpel against Kate's neck – "I'll just have to make you."

Suddenly, the door burst ajar again. This time, it was Anton who came flying through. He held the fire extinguisher from Exam Room 7 in both hands, and he took no time to pause before bringing it down with all the force he could muster on the back of Michael's head, before the neurosurgeon had a change to swivel, shocked, on his heels. The impact had an immediate effect, and Michael, his eyes rolling into the back of his head, fell heavily to the floor.

"I must be seeing dead people!" Zeke gasped good-naturedly from where he still lay, curled up in pain, grasping his sore groin as though that would help the pain subside faster.

"Anton!" Kate raced forward and hugged the carpenter in her relief. Anton swayed haphazardly on his feet as she did so.

"You're injured," observed Zeke in a stressed tone as he gradually stood. "And by the looks of it, you need medical attention."

"First," Anton said, his voice strained, "we need to deal with him." He nodded to Michael.

"Looks like we ended up in the same situation as before," said Kate, stepping away from Anton, but holding his arm to support him.

"An extraction isn't going to work, the spirit inside Brother Mike is too strong. We need to try something different. But…I have no more methods that I'm familiar with that could help us."

They were all quiet for a moment, until Zeke spoke up, saying, "I know! Let's kill him."

The others stared at him incredulously. "What?!" Kate exclaimed.

"Anton, spirits can't inhabit and control dead bodies, can they? Don't they have to leave the host, like a parasite does, once the host can no longer nourish it?"

Anton was silent in thought. "Yes," he said finally. "I see what you're considering. This could actually work."

Kate was appalled. "So, to get him back, we're going to _murder _him?"

"Only briefly. If we do this correctly, we can control everything and make sure everything runs smoothly. We can kill him only long enough for the spirit to get the hell out, then we can revive Michael," explained Zeke.

"You do realize that this is _extremely_ risky?" Kate stressed. "And that it could easily go horribly wrong?"

"I'm afraid it's our only option," Anton said.

"Okay. But if we're gonna do this, we need to think it through. We need to think of a way that we can near kill Michael without damaging his body."

"Maybe…some kind of shock?" Anton suggested.

"I think you're on to something, there," Zeke said, his expression lighting up. He looked at Kate, who looked back at him hopefully. "ACD."

Kate frowned. "Wait, Sudden Cardiac Death?" She mulled it over. "I guess we could induce an arrhythmia. Michael's extraordinarily healthy, though, so we'd have to do it by giving him an electrical shock." Kate cringed. "This is going to be painful."

"Of course it will, he'll be dying," Zeke said bluntly. "But what will happen if we don't do this will be much worse, and believe me, I'm fine with taking a risk if it means possibly solving our current situation." He sighed and glanced back to Michael, who looked so peaceful unconscious, especially when Zeke recalled the snarl the neurosurgeon had worn when he'd tried to kill Kate. Yes, it was definitely worth the risk to get the real, logical, and arrogant but non-homicidal Michael back. "We'll need to have the defibrillators at the ready, because once we start this, we'll have no time to lose."

Zeke left to retrieve the clinic's set of defibrillators as Kate and Anton lifted Michael and settled the slender doctor down on an exam chair. Zeke returned a few long minutes later, and the three commenced setting up the supplies they'd need.

"Alright," Kate said, taking a deep breath. "Let's do this."

They had constructed a very rudimentary setup, which included a heart rate monitor that beeped softy and evenly, a pair of defibrillators, and a metal counter they'd cleared off so they could have a larger, clearer space to work with.

With nervous fingers, Kate unbuttoned Michael's blood-stained shirt to reveal his bare chest. She helped Zeke place the defibrillation pads, then stepped back to join Anton as Zeke finished messing around with the medical instrument. Before anyone had time to accept what was really happening, Zeke said: "Stand clear." Michael fingers twitched slightly as the first electrical shock was sent through his body. Kate kept a close eye on the neurosurgeon's readings, until finally, after the second shock, she noticed an irregularity in Michael's heartbeat. The solitary irregularity developed into a much bigger issue when the man's entire heartbeat ceased to follow a single, normal rhythm.

Still unconscious, Michael began to convulse. His back straightened stiffly, and he sat up like a straight metal flagpole, his face lifted to the ceiling. He produced a startling choking noise, and saliva dripped down his chin. This time when the spirit fought back, it was with much less vigor – Michael was close to death, and the spirit was becoming aware that it had very few options left, and none of them were in its favor.

Michael's body fell limp without warning, and the heart rate monitor whined a constant tone. Zeke stumbled with the defibrillator.

"What are you waiting for, resuscitate him!" Kate cried.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Zeke responded with equal anguish. His fingers fumbled with the machine, which he'd almost dropped. "Clear," he muttered. Then, he sent another shock through Michael. There was no reaction. The monitor continued to scream its one, awful tone.

Anton, his face as white and stone as a full moon, suddenly stirred from where he'd been observing the doctors. He closed his eyes, cocked his head, and released a massive breath. "It's gone," he said, a slight smile brushing his lips.

"And Michael will be, too, if he doesn't wake up," Zeke informed the carpenter in a voice brimming with fear. He shifted the defibrillator in his hands, preparing it for another shock. "Come on, man. Don't do this to us, you stubborn bastard. Wake _up_."

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_He didn't dare open his eyes. And being as exhausted as he was, why would he? He'd tried to climb, to claw his way back to the controls, though at this point he didn't even recall why he had been struggling so rigorously, why he was putting up such a fight. All thoughts of worry slipped from his mind, like a fresh breeze carrying in the scent of the ocean. In fact, Michael realized, it really did smell like the ocean. Saltiness stung at his nose, and he felt something swaying beneath him. He refused to open his eyes, still, even as a gentle hand tenderly ran itself through his hair._

"_You recognize this place?"_

_Michael did not jump at the sound of the voice. He was pleasantly drowning in a thick feeling of tranquility, a sweetly sick substance flooding his mouth and nose. Even as it filled him, hardening slowly like cement, making him stiff and gripped with a harrowing paralysis, he laid calmly as though he was simply drifting off to sleep. And in a sense, he was. _

"_We use to come here often, do you remember, Michael?" Anna spoke again. "You always hated it." She chuckled forlornly._

_Michael made no act to respond. He remained quiet and allowed a balmy warm to creep through his veins and lay itself, like a wet blanket, over his thoughts. Anna's voice, as soft as the waves crashing against the dock beneath him, seemed so distant, almost nonexistent. _

"_You're dying, Michael." The words didn't bother him, despite the bitterness in the voice that spoke them, spitting them out as though they were sour. "Take it from me, you don't wanna let this happen. It's not your time."_

_The gentle hand ceased running through his hair. He moaned, wanting it back, grieving in the absence of its tender touch._

"_You're an incredibly smart man. But you've always been so stupidly stubborn, and I've never understood that."_

_A wooden board creaked, and the dock vibrated against his back as someone stood and took a few steps. With each step, the groaning of the panels grew fainter and fainter. "You need to wake up, Michael. You have to. However much I'd like to have you with me, you deserve to live," Anna's voice told him, lifted onto the breeze. She sounded farther away now._

_Michael wanted her. He wished to cry out, to stop her from leaving him. He needed to feel her hand running through his hair, to embrace her and absorb her warmth. Suddenly, he was filled with the urge to see her, to open his eyes and to gaze onto her plain yet lovely face, her skin so pale and delicate it appeared to glow in the golden sunlight, her eyes so deep he could fall into them, fall under her spell. He wanted to run to her, but his legs were unresponsive. He'd crawl if he could, but his arms were useless. He struggled, stirring the serenity, disturbing his stagnant mind. Like ripples in a still pond, his mind awoke slowly, signals groggily chasing each other through his head. Michael strained, a great sensation of discomfort grating against him. He threw punches, and writhed underneath the iron blanket that held him in place, but his fists only scraped against hard brick, stinging in pain with every progressively more disheartened blow. Michael fought until another wave of sleepiness bogged his mind. And he began to slow, all resistance to the force which clouded his senses sucked dry from him. He was about to give up._

_But then, his eyes shot open._

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Without warning, the neurosurgeon's eyes flew open, and instantly, there was a body on top of him.

"Thank _god!" _Kate cried out, wrapping the man into a suffocating hug.

"Huh?" Michael responded, his mind reeling.

Zeke appeared beside him. "You know, you're such a dick for scaring us like that." Then, his stern expression crumbled, replaced by one of enormous relief. He placed an affectionate hand on Michael's shoulder.

Michael's expression contorted in his confusion. "The hell's going on?"

Anton, Zeke, and Kate all exchanged glances. If Michael didn't remember what had just happened, this was going to take a long, arduous explanation.

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"What are you doing?" Michael asked, uneasily squirming away from the carpenter, eyeing the object the man held in his hand. He was still unsettled from the story both the doctors and Anton had told him, even if he refused to believe a single word of it. Though, it did make him curious how all three knew the order of the events so well and all the same, small details. Eventually, when the three had finished filling him in on the most recent of events, he shook his head dubiously and dismissed it as an incredibly well-rehearsed joke. Yet, no matter how much Michael wanted it to, the lie he told himself didn't explain why his shirt was covered in what smelled like _real _blood, why he had lacerations all over his body, and how such a horrid taste had crawled its way into the back of his throat.

His mind was reeling, and with his mouth dry, his body sore, and with a headache that could bring a man down onto his knees, Michael just needed to sleep. At the same time, though, he was much too terrified to.

"Hold still," Zeke said. "Anton's doing some…shaman thing. What was it, again?"

"It's a protective necklace. If you wear it, spirits will not be able to touch you," Anton explained. He stepped closer to Michael in an attempt to slip the necklace over the man's head, but once again Michael dodged, recoiling further back into the chair, where he still sat. Anton frowned. "I suggest you wear it," he added, as though Michael misunderstood his intentions.

"You think I'm gonna wear _that_?" Michael looked at everyone's faces individually, his eyes desperately searching for someone who wasn't in on the enormous joke being played on him. He crumbled, slumping in his chair, when he realized that not even Kate would show sympathy and stop the others from continuing the cruel game with Michael.

The necklace that Anton held in his grasp wasn't like anything Michael had ever seen. It had a pale violet amethyst stone stuck inside the center of an expertly engraved coin of silver, which clinked almost inaudibly as it swayed on its long, metal chain and bumped against other gems and beads of smooth silver shaped as curled leaves, coins, and rings. One of the metal pieces had been sculpted into a wrinkled, outstretched hand that hung loosely from a bronze hook.

"Come on, man. You gotta trust us on this one," Zeke pleaded.

Michael slowly released a massive sigh as he shook his head wryly. After a moment of thought, he said, "You're not going to let me leave until I put that thing on, are you?"

"You got that right. So, it would be in everyone's best interest if you'd please put it on," Kate replied, her voice demanding, yet gentle. She watched him with imploring eyes, her eyebrows slanted upward in an expression of hope.

"Alright," Michael grumbled reluctantly. "But it's going on underneath my shirt."

The three others seemed to all simultaneously release a sigh of relief. Anton stepped forward, slipping the necklace, which rang softly, over the neurosurgeon's head. Michael grabbed it and quickly tucked it underneath his clothing. The metal was cold against his chest, which was damp with a thin layer of sweat that had been there since before Michael woke up.

He stood, and instantly swayed on his feet, his head reeling. Grabbing for the counter, he stabilized himself as Kate, who was closest to him, came rushing forward to help.

"You okay?" she asked, her consternation evident.

"Yeah, yeah." He waved her off. Then, looking over, he noticed she had a colossal grin planted across her cheeks. He moaned. "What? What are you smiling about?"

Kate wrapped her arms around him in a hug, closing her eyes as she did so. "I'm just happy to see you again," she told him. He tensed at the contact, but eventually relaxed into her warm touch.

It felt as though it had been a long time since Michael had felt anything so pleasant.


	6. Epilogue

He threw the last of his luggage onto the backseat of his black Maserati Gran Turismo, where it bounced off of the cushions stiffly and slipped between two other bags Michael had already placed there. He was aware that time was short, and if he was going to do what he was planning to do, rushing would be necessary. Yet something pulled at the back of his mind incessantly, making him uneasy and doubtful about his choices. He was also overwhelmed by a crippling sense of déjà vu, because once again, he found himself running from his life.

He was leaving New York, just as he had once left Renai and his children. Just as he had left Anna.

Was he really making the correct decision? Could he really escape again? Would his rotten luck just follow him to wherever he went to hide this time? He'd really grown affectionate of Holt Neuro, and had worked endlessly to become as successful as he had over the years. Did he have to leave?

Of course he did. Zeke, Anton, and Kate would only look at him like he was a monster, just as Renai and the children had. He wouldn't be able to escape their frightened stares, the sadness ever-present behind their every expression. When he walked into a room, he'd dampen spirits, make the conversation go quiet. It had all happened before. Who was to say it wouldn't happen again?

He slid into the driver's seat and slammed the door, slipping the key into the ignition and starting the car with a rumble and a growl. He glanced out the window from his spot on the side of the street and up at his apartment building, already a growing, gnawing weight present in the pit of his stomach. He felt sick with nostalgia, even though he hadn't gone anywhere yet.

Cars slipped by beside him, honking their horns, releasing gaseous fumes into the overcast sky. The first light of dawn was barely grazing the sky, and citizens still poured onto the sidewalks, walking fast with someplace in mind. They all had somewhere to go, a life to lead, a goal to reach. It was beautiful, the imperfect rhythm that every individual on the streets had, the unpredictable and monotonous days they all had laid out before them. They'd go to work, perhaps pick up a cup of coffee, socialize with coworkers, and go home to eat dinner and spend the rest of the day with someone who they loved. It seemed as though everybody had something, or someone, and that everybody had a place to get to or a person to meet.

Michael didn't know where he was going, or what he was even doing.

He took a large breath. With a heavy heart, he lowered his foot to the pedal.

"Michael! Wait!"

Suddenly there was rapping at his window, and a mountain of golden curls. Michael hesitantly rolled down the glass, part of him relieved for Kate's appearance, and the other part of him annoyed. He took his foot off the pedal.

"You weren't at Holt Neuro, so I figured you must be here," she explained, panting, as soon as the window had been cracked open. Once it was open entirely, she leaned in, balancing her elbows on the open window's pane.

"Kate, what are you doing here?" Michael asked her, his voice dry and serious.

"I think the more important question is what are _you _thinking?"

He shook his head. "I don't have time for this-"

"You can't leave us," she interrupted him. "We worked too hard to get you back, you can't just drive away like this." She took a deep breath. "You know, you've always been stubborn. And arrogant. And a bit of a jerk-"

"Where are you going with this?"

"-but you're probably the best physician I've ever had the honor of meeting," Kate continued. "And you've done so much for the clinic, whether you want people to think so or not."

"Look, believe it or not, I've been in a situation like this before. Things never go back to the way they were, and I…I just can't handle that."

"So…you're fixing this problem by leaving?" she said, nodding back towards his luggage. "You think that'll make things better?" Michael was silent. "Michael, things will never be normal again. But they will get better."

A few empty seconds passed, where neither of the two spoke. The gravity of Kate's words weighed down on the neurosurgeon's mind as he remained speechless. After a while, Kate stepped away from the car, standing. She straightened her shirt, then hugged her arms around herself in a fruitless attempt to remain warm against the chill morning air.

"It's your decision," Kate said. "I just want you to remember that at the clinic, you're family." She then turned around and hurried off. Michael watched her disappear around the corner.

Then, he removed the keys from the ignition.


End file.
